


The Great Mockingbird

by stargategeek



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dazzling 1920's summer. The rich are golden and bathing in bootlegged liquor. The music is loud and swinging. Everyone worth anything is engaged in a cacophony of mindless self-indulgence. At least thats what it sounds like from where the young Sansa Stark stands. On the beach of her new small little cottage next door to the grandest mansion and it's most enigmatic inhabitant Sansa finds herself thrown into the middle of a whole new bright, beautiful, corrupt, and dazzling world all because of one man staring longingly at a green light.</p><p>A Great Gatsby/Game of Thrones AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sansa Stark pulled into the drive of her new home - a quiet little cottage by the lake, where she hoped to get some work done, maybe some journaling if she was good. Her parents had set her up on the west side of Westeros in a place known as The Fingers; they lived on the East in a community called Winterfell, across the lake. If she squinted she could almost see her family's home from the beach.

Her little cottage was nestled in between a thicket of low hanging willows, known as the Godswood Park in this area (the last untouched landscape in the city for miles) and a large palatial home to her right. It was a grand house, with walls so high and covered in ivy it only served to make the cottage feel more isolated. It was only when she ventured beyond her little garden and patio to her beach that she could really see the vastness of the property beside her. It was a three-story mansion with crystalline windows, and coral-colored stone, spanning the length of an entire football field end to end...at least it felt like it did - she wouldn't be surprised.

When she first came to look at the cottage she had asked the landlord who owned the grand palace beside the modest little shack. She had expected some kind of king or celebrity, but the answer was even more elusive than that.

 "That house belongs to Baelish," the landlord had whispered conspiratorially.

 "Who is Baelish?"

 "You haven't heard of him. He's all anyone can seem to talk about these days. They say he is a businessman, works for the Spider, maybe...has dealings with the Lannister family, I also heard."

 "Heard?"

 "Baelish is very mysterious, not a lot is known about him, not even the people who regularly attend his parties seem to know much about the man himself. Just little bits and facts."

 "Parties?"

The landlord, a Mr. Kettleblack if she recalled correctly, nodded with a grin.

 "Yes, did I not mention that? He hosts parties regularly, almost every weekend. Lavish and grand parties; celebrities and royalty attend. Musicians from all over the world perform...I even heard rumors of bootlegged liquor and prostitutes. Very scandalous, very outrageous. Anybody whose anybody attends at least once. I, myself had been graciously offered entrance once. Could barely stand all the noise for five minutes. I hope the noise won't be a turn off for you. You won't hear much this side of the wall, no more than a murmur."

Sansa could've said no, the noise could be a problem when it came to her writing...but the idea of living next to such an enigma, well...maybe she'd get some inspiration from her mysterious neighbor.

 "I'll take it!" she said without hesitation and the papers were signed that day without even consulting her parents.  
That reminded her, she promised she would come home for dinner tomorrow night to celebrate her moving out on her own. (One last ditch attempt to convince her to comeback, no doubt, at least on her father's part.) She made a mental note of it as she put her car into park.

Her car (an old Dodge she had seen for sale at a used car lot) gruffled and grunted into silence as it came to a full stop in front of the little cottage. Sansa smiled. The car was black, with rusting edges, torn and worn leather seats, and a dent in the right fender. It was sturdy and grumbly; it had creaks and leaks; it had character. From the moment she saw it she had to have it, she could not and would not drive anything else. Because of its decent price and functionality, her parents agreed.

All she had for belongings was a large suitcase full of clothing, a lamp she had bought at a yard sale, a quilt made for her by her old nurse Mordane (the closest person she'd ever had to a grandmother), and a framed picture of her and her sister Arya on a beach in France. She always dreamed she'd return there with her husband or lover one day and visit that beach. Not that she even remembered what it was called. Father probably knew.

The little cottage was fully-furnished with quaint little mismatched chairs and a settee. The bedroom was small; the bed sported a slightly lumpy twin mattress, two night stands on either side of the simple metal bed frame. There was a little wardrobe in the corner for her clothes and a small writing desk next to the tiny window that let in a single shaft of sunlight.  
The air was dusty in the cottage, and the ivy had overgrown over most of the windows giving the place a cozy, rustic atmosphere. The garden was to be her summer project; she already had some flower seeds in her purse that she planned to plant some time later in the week, and she wasn't even going to think about the state of the tub in the bathroom until she had to. This whole place could handle a deep scrub down.  
The kitchen, though small, was also functional; a gas stove, a small little refrigerator, a closet-pantry. It would do. It's not like she planned on hosting many dinner parties or tea services.

The idea of parties caused her to drop the suitcase and box she was carrying in the middle of the living room/dining room and go outside to look at Mr. Baelish's house. She wondered if she'd ever see him, maybe just a glimpse - this mysterious enigma of a neighbor of hers.  
There was no activity coming from her elusive man's house. Everything was as still and undisturbed as a ghost town. Even the lake was motionless and glassy, like a large mirror reflecting the sky.  
Disappointed - in what, she did not know - Sansa returned to her home to continue her unpacking and cleaning. Her clothes were immediately hung on coat hangers and put away in the wardrobe. Her colors were very drab, mostly faint pastel blazers and lacy white dresses and frocks; dainty stockings, cream colored skirts and pale blouses. She never really cared much for ostentation, simplicity was what she liked. Simple and honest.

With a baby blue ribbon she tied her hair back and set herself to work. The floors were to be mopped; the windows to be washed; the carpets ands rugs to be shaken out and beaten; the furniture to be dusted, and all surfaces wiped. She made her bed; brand new, freshly laundered, crisp linen sheets and a lacy bedskirt topped with a thick pastel blue and lavender duvet and the quilt Mordane had made for her. The lamp and her photograph was placed on the nightstand beside.

The walls of the cottage were fairly bare, and she resolved to go out and buy some pictures or paintings to give the faint seafoam green and beige walls some life and vibrance. Her most prized possession - her typewriter (a gift from her paternal grandfather before he passed away) - was placed on the writing desk with care. Her journals were tucked into the drawer on the side. She saw the drawer required a key and found said key inside an envelope in her mailbox. Not that she had any deep secrets worth keeping under safeguard, but the idea of having her ideas and dreams hidden away like some sort of conspiracy excited her in a small, childish way. She put the little key in a small tin mint box and tucked it between her mattress and it's springs where she could easily reach it. The romanticism of it all! It made her giddy.

The day wore down into early evening. She enjoyed a simple dinner of saltines and pickled herring...her guilty pleasure - and for dessert: sweet homemade lemon cakes (her even more guilty pleasure). She ate three before forcing herself to put the lid on the tin and hide it where she couldn't easily see it.

She was sitting on her back porch overlooking the lake as the sun set behind it; a journal in her lap and a coral shawl around her shoulders to keep her warm as the air began to cool around her. She was interrupted from her distant thoughts by the sudden burst of music and laughter. She heard cars and horns; pianos and trumpets; murmurs and shouts. Before she even realized it, the docile palace beside her had come to life. Bright lights shone from the large glass windows that seemed to want to taunt the sky with their diamond-like radiance. The music started from the top of the building and radiated down into the large veranda where a splash was heard. Cheers filled the night air. Sansa decided to finish her writing inside.

An hour later the party next door to her was in full swing. Music, singing, dancing, cheering, a constant murmur of voices talking to one another. Everything she could hear from her tiny bedroom. Apparently, sleep was out of the question tonight.  
Her journal had been abandoned on the nightstand as she leaned against the bedframe listening to the exciting sounds. It was almost mesmerizing to hear all the life happening beside her. What were they celebrating? Who were all those people? Were they all Baelish's friends, coworkers, neighbors?  
Her curiosity lead her outside to the beach, standing on her little dock and staring at the grand sight beside her meager little cottage. It was a sea of bodies as far as the eye could see. People dressed in their best finery; diamonds and pearls, feathers and silks; dancing, laughing, drinking and kissing. It was an orgy of color and lights and people. It was a fascinating sight!

That's when she saw it. A green glow emanating from somewhere in the distance. It was incredibly bright and reached out from far beyond the lake. Her eye followed the glow to a figure walking out of the mass of bodies on the veranda with a calm purpose and an air of ease (only afforded to the man who must own this palatial estate). He walked right out of the party and came to stand at the end of a dock. He was dressed in an expensive black tuxedo, a silver ring glittered from his pinky finger. She couldn't quite make out his face from where she was but he seemed to have a very handsome gait about him.

Surely, he must be Baelish. She could sense it in her gut.

He was staring off into the distance (at the green light); a fog was rising off the surface of the lake and wafting around his feet, making him look all that more enchanting. The green glow bathed him in an unnatural light, making him seem otherworldly. Who was he?

A raucous and particularly drink-heavy guest made his way to the edge of the veranda and hollered, lifting up a sparkling glass of golden liquid. "Littlefinger!" he called. The man turned at his name. “Fantastic party!" cried the man. He was a slightly portly, red-faced, and bleary-eyed looking man. He wore a black and white tux that was stained down the front, and there were a plethora of colorful beads around his neck and several feathers from an assortment of boas clinging to his shoulders and collar.

The man called "Littlefinger" turned and his eyes met hers from where she was standing on her minuscule little pallet of a dock. Time seemed to freeze as he stared at her. His face impassive, but his eyes glinted green from the light.

 "Littlefinger!" the man called again. "Come have a drink with me!" Littlefinger's gaze did not leave hers, though his mouth curled into a smile. She couldn't see anymore than the outline of his face but she could...feel his smile, like it was an invisible hand caressing her face. His head bowed to her, and she felt the need to return the gesture but didn't exactly know what it meant.  
Littlefinger's gaze left her all too quickly and turned to his portly friend. "Dontos," he called the man. "My friend, I will join you up at the house." His voice was husky and smooth, like she imagined a whiskey or bourbon to be.  
She craned her neck to get a look at his face but it was blotted out by all the light, and he was soon swept away into the sea of bodies again as if he had been a drop of water reclaimed by the ocean.

Sansa stood there, still, shell-shocked by what she had just witnessed. That man - whoever he is - looked at her as if he knew her; had known her for her entire life. The way he seemed to look right into her - she shook it off. It was just her romantic writer's whimsy, she surmised.

The rest of the night was uneventful after that. She went back inside, made herself some tea, then sat down at her typewriter to maybe get some writing done. When nothing came to her she attempted to sleep once again, which was equally as futile.

_Littlefinger...what a terribly odd name...was it his own or a nickname? What would you have to do to get a nickname like that?_

Around three, the party seemed to dwindle, she could hear the sounds of cars sputtering away, their patrons laughing and singing off-key into the distance.  
Sansa got out of bed and once again picked up her journal and went outside to sit on one of her wooden garden chairs. The peace and quiet after all the din of the party offered her a perfect solace to jot down some thoughts, particularly over the strange man she had seen earlier on the dock.

It was cool outside, with a comforting breeze rustling the willows that hung over her garden. With a little work she could make this place her palace, even more so than the palatial monstrosity that neighbored her. _What a large place for only one man...he must be lonely, mustn't he?_

Her eyes flitted up for an instant - there he was! Well, it seemed to be him, she couldn't tell from where she was sitting. He was standing on the end of the dock again, facing the vibrant green light; one hand neatly tucked into his trouser pocket while the other hung loosely by his side.

He was looking for something. _Was a boat coming in? Was the green light a signal?_

The lights in the house had all gone out except for one at the top, leaving only the green-glowing beacon to beckon its lost souls.

Sansa found herself standing on the beach, toes in the sand, creeping ever closer to the shadowy man on the dock. She stopped when he moved - a simple shift in the balls of his feet; his hand came out of his pocket. Sansa froze. _Had he heard her?_

The man - she still couldn't make out his face in the darkness - suddenly lifted both his hands up and stretched them out in front of him, as if reaching for something far beyond him. It was an odd gesture, to say the least; it was as if he was reaching for the green light that was beckoning to him. _Was he hoping it would come to him if he opened his arms to it?_  
He stood like that for a long time. Sending his yearning out across the misty lake to some unknown force. It was a beautifully strange sight and Sansa found herself glued to the spot as she watched him, not exactly sure why she was so entranced by this mysterious man.  
His arms dropped after several minutes and they smoothed down over his dark suit to a pocket on his vest where he pulled out a glimmering pocket watch. She could barely make it out from where she was. The man turned and walked to where his dock met the shore, then looked up; their eyes met again, and he stopped, taking a moment to take in his audience. She couldn't see his face, only his shape, but she knew he was looking directly at her; she could feel his gaze once again. _What was it about this man?_

With a bow of his head and what she felt might've been a wink, he disappeared under the arch of his garden gate and was masked from view by the great walls that separated them.  
Sansa followed him with her eyes, as his form blended into the ivy-covered coral stone and into the dark house. After a moment she saw a shadow move across the window at the top of the house and then the light switched off, leaving her bathed and chilled in moonlight.

She had just seen Mr. Baelish, she realized. She had just looked into the eyes of the enigma and he had winked back at her. _What a fascinatingly odd man!_

Sansa went to bed that night (wee hours of the morning more like) with a slight smile on her face. She was definitely going to like it here, she could feel it...she was on the cusp of a great summer.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The drive to Winterfell was a long and dusty trip. To get there (bypassing construction and the more sketchier parts of town) you had to go through the Eyrie, an oil-stained stretch of industrial development, with low income housing (just a step above the cardboard box homes of the Eastern ghettos), and blue collar workers littering the streets like sandflies. It was practically poverty compared to the glimmering gold and crimson streets of King's Landing (the metropolitan uprising) which lay only a few miles to the south. 

From the main road she could see her mother's sister's (her Aunt Lysa's) place, a brick and stone apartment building known as The Vale Apartments, set atop a demure and dingy auto garage owned by her aging Uncle Jon. She didn't much like driving past them. For the past five years her family had become rather out of touch with her mother's side of the family. Her slender, snake-y Aunt Lysa; her gruff and grizzled husband, and her prince - the most spoiled rotten little brat you'd ever have the pleasure of meeting (her cousin, Robin). She had to admit she didn't miss the awkward family gatherings, and the almost bi-polar behavior of her mother's sister since they stopped visiting frequently. Luckily, no one seemed to be home to notice her driving past.

She breathed a sigh of relief and kept going. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could escape unscathed on the drive home as well.   
As she turned on to the vibrant green roads of the upper class homes of Winterfell Estates, she was bombarded by the grand mansions and extravagant signs of wealth. A little ball of wariness began to form in her gut as she drove through.  
Sansa considered herself lucky not to be born into this. It was only in the past few years that her family had risen up in stature and settled into a higher class. She had been raised with an appreciation for the simple; to find beauty in the meager or homely; to take comfort in sentiment and tradition. To her, a quaint little cottage was a palace, because it was hers, because she meant to fill it with her own memories and stories. In her mind, all these extravagant homes were empty tombs without a heart in them. It was quite tragic, really.

As she pulled into the long drive of her family's estate, the growing unease in her stomach churned even further. Parked near the front steps of the red and white Georgian colonial home was her Aunt Lysa's car and another car she did not recognize. Sansa had not expected this.  
Sansa parked her Dodge next to the shiny little convertible that she didn't know and sighed. The day was warm, with a light summer breeze caressing her face like an old friend greeting her. Would they notice if she hid out here the entire evening? Most likely, yes...but possibly no.  
Sansa sucked in a deep breath to summon all her courage and got out of the safety of her automobile, pulling her light pink driving gloves (with a stitched rose design) off her dainty hands and tucking them in the glove box. She fixed her red hair in the side mirror, smiling at herself when she was pleased enough with her appearance. She had chosen a simple white blouse and light blue skirt ensemble for tonight's familial affair. Conservative and mature, as her mother always liked to see her.

She walked up to the front door and rang the bell, hoping to see her mother on the other side. A serving man, or butler (whatever you may call him) answered the door though and bid her entrance. She would never get used to this fancy lifestyle that her family had adopted.

The butler escorted her with an indifferent gaze to the main parlor. The house was quieter than she could stand. In truth, this was her first time visiting this particular house. It was new; the family only moved in recently while she had been staying with her friend Margaery Tyrell in High Garden - a college in the fragrant green country side where she had spent the past two years getting her education. A worthy experience of some tragic romantic tale she hoped to write one day.

Since leaving the house she grew up in five years ago her family had moved around from house to house, each one getting bigger and more extravagant than the last. This latest monstrosity was almost overwhelming in size. With large white arches; pristine columns that reached into the heavens; a grande staircase that seemingly went on forever, and bay windows that stretched from ground to sky.

The parlor, upon entrance, was almost billowing in slow motion with beautiful ivory curtains. The fabric had caught the early summer breeze through the open windows and flowed long into the room, masking the sounds of lilting laughter and clinking glass. It made the room look like it went on forever. It probably did.

 "Miss Sansa, madam," announced the butler before disappearing through the door.

 "Sansa!" a voice called, as if from out of a dream. Sansa took a hesitant step forward. "Sansa, is that you my sweet!" The voice called to her again.

A curtain puffed and pulled back to reveal a handsome young man standing in front of her. “You must be Sansa," he said in a low voice. He was young, not much older than her, with golden blonde hair and a warmly tanned face. His wide blue eyes shone at her. "You look a little lost, birdie." Sansa was flustered, to say the least. "Come," he offered her his hand. She took it reluctantly, not exactly knowing who this man happened to be or why he was smiling at her the way he was.

He led her further into the room where three divans were set out in a triangle formation in the centre of the room, a circular coffee table in the centre sporting sweet tea and buckets of ice. Nestled among the nest of white fabric the divans seemed to cut through the centre of the room like the parting of the Red Sea (or White Sea in this case) creating a channel between the mass of fabric on each side to a set of wide open windows overlooking the terrace. On one, she could see her aunt, lounging comfortably with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in a long ebony holder in the other. 

 "Ah! My sweet girl!" her aunt gasped. "My how you've grown!" Lysa stood up, her knee length flapper dress with it's teasing tassels shaking as she walked up to her and kissed her cheek. "You seem to get taller every time I lay my eyes on you." Her aunt smiled in that way that always made Sansa feel a tad uneasy. "I see you've met dear Harry," Lysa grinned at the man who had escorted her in. "Did he introduce himself yet?"

 "Sort of," Sansa looked over to Harry. 

 "Does he look familiar to you?" Lysa asked with a sly grin. Sansa squinted. Now that she mentioned it...

 "It doesn't matter, Sansa," he waved it off with a handsome smile. "Sit, let me pour you a drink. We're making mint juleps!"

 "I don't want a mint julep," another voice sounded behind the divan. "Just get me a tub and pour the ice over me, I'm boiling in my own skin." Sansa smiled, walking around the couch to see her beautiful mother, Catelyn Stark, lying dramatically on the off-white divan. "Oh! Sansa!" Cat looked up from under her fan. "I didn't hear you come in. This heat has my mind drifting all over the place." Cat got up in one graceful motion and grasped her daughter's shoulders. "You look lovely, my sweet."

 "Hello mother," Sansa hugged her. It felt like it had been ages since she'd seen her mother that it was nice to be in her arms again.

 "Your father is out in the stables with Uncle Jon, talking man stuff or what have you," Cat shrugged. "While we melt in this blasted heat."

 "She lies, we've been having a wonderful time, isn't that right Harry?"

Harry cheered, lifting up the pair of ice tongs currently in his hand as he stood at the bar tucked into the corner that Sansa only just noticed was there. These blasted curtains!

 "Sit next to me darling and tell me how you've been," Cat tugged Sansa on to the divan.

 "Well, Margaery and I got a job as secretaries for her father's bond firm downtown. She's moving there with her fiancé, and I'll be taking the train in. We had a wonderful time at her family's vineyard last month...I only got sunburnt once."

Cat interrupted her story with an airy laugh. "Sounds wonderful, my dear. And are you all moved into that little place of yours?"

Lysa perked up. "Where are you living now, child?"

 "I found this quaint little cottage in The Fingers, have you heard of it?"

 "Oh, The Fingers you say," Lysa coughed then took a drag from her cigarette. "How ever can you afford it?"

 "The landlord wasn't asking much for it, I think it used to be a groundskeepers cottage or something like that." Sansa stood up and went over to the window to see if she could spot her tiny home.

 "I've been to the Fingers a few times, and I have never seen a little cottage," Harry remarked, coming to stand almost too close to Sansa for her liking.

 "You wouldn't..." she took a step back from him. Lysa joined them, peering out to the eruption of large mansions across the candescent blue water. "Right next to the large one on the left...right...there!" Sansa pointed out her little minuscule dot of a home.

 "Oh!" Harry laughed. "How quaint."

 "It looks darling," Lysa said with a false smile then returned to her seat on the couch.

 "I know someone who lives there," chirped Harry.

 "Oh, I don't know anybody..." Sansa started to say.

 "Surely you've heard of Baelish!"

Cat stiffened slightly. "Baelish?"

 "A businessman I hear, though in what no one seems to know. I've heard tales of how he does business for both the Baratheon's and the Lannisters. Some people have even told me he works alongside "the Spider". There are rumors beyond that, that he deals in bootlegged liquor, or - even more so - in ladies of the night."

 "Ladies of the..." Lysa started to ask.

 "Whores, Lysa," Cat sighed, interrupting her sister. "Whores and pleasure mongers."

 "The man holds parties every weekend. Bold, extravagant affairs! Singing, dancing, drinking! He fills the entire house with bodies and pumps them full with food and drink. Musicians, performers and magicians of every ilk are hired to entertain them. All manner of people come, the doors are open to them, no one is refused entry!"

 "They aren't invited?" asked Sansa.

 "No one is. I went there twice and every person I talked to there had never even seen Baelish; wouldn't even be able to pick him out of the crowd." Harry continued, enthralled.

 "Have you met him?" asked Sansa.

 "Me? No. Not formally anyhow, and even if I have, I wouldn't know it was him. Have you?"

Sansa's mind flashed back to seeing that dark figure standing on his dock, arms outstretched. She could still feel his gaze on her just thinking about it. "Uh..."

 "I've had just about enough of this talk! Where is your father, I would like to eat before I wither away."

 "I'll go see if I can find him and Jon in the garden," Harry volunteered. "Has Sansa gotten the tour of the place yet?" Sansa snapped up to look at Harry's eyes. He was grinning boyishly. He was almost too handsome. If there even was such a thing.

 "There'll be time for that later, right now I am happy right where she is," Cat grasped her daughters's shoulder and pulled her into a light embrace.

Harry nodded, a hint of disappointment in his features. "Perhaps after dinner then, I can show you to the beach," Harry offered.

 "Uh, sure," Sansa shrugged. Harry left with a wink and a smile, skipping out the bay doors.

 "A charming young man, don't you think? Only 25, and he has all the world open for him."

 "Have I met him before?" Sansa leaned close to her mother.

 "Probably," scoffed Lysa.

 "Let her guess for herself," Cat chided.

 "I know I've seen his face, I just can't place it..."

 "You have all night to think about it, for now let's talk," Cat subverted the conversation with a gentle wave of her hand. She and Lysa chatted amiably back and forth for a couple minutes about flowers...or was it tennis? Sansa only half listened, her ear searching for another sound.

 "Where's Arya?" she asked suddenly.

 "Arya? At a friends, I suppose. Your father took them away this afternoon I didn't really pay attention to where they were going."

 "And Bran?"

Cat frowned. "Where do you think Bran is?"

 "Rickon?"

 "In bed with a fever. Oh and your other brothers aren't coming either, but I suspect you knew that."

Sansa nodded. “A lot has happened in two years," Sansa sighed.

 "Really? I feel as if nothing has changed at all. Nothing ever changes here," Cat sighed, Lysa nodded in agreement.

 "And what about your Robert?" Sansa asked.

 "Poor boy, got his oxygen tanks changed again, he is bedridden for the next few days or so. I didn't want to leave him but Jon insisted it would be good for my spirit," Lysa sighed dramatically. "We left him with one of our tenants. A rather simple kind of chap, bit of a skirt chaser, and I'm sure he smokes one of those weird herbs or weeds that is said to cause weird visions, or something of that sort, but he plays the guitar and sings to Robert, and Robert loves it. He's the only one I can leave him with for any decent amount of time," Lysa grasped Sansa's hand suddenly. "You should come visit us some time, we're right on the way."

 "I wouldn't want to impose..."

 "It would be no imposition. Robert would love to see a new face. We'd love it!"

 "We'd love what?" a gruff voice sounded behind her.

Sansa turned to see her Uncle Jon standing in the doorway. A gruff man in his sixties, with hard brown eyes, and a fixed frown on his face. Sansa had never particularly enjoyed being in his company, mostly because he never seemed to enjoy being in hers. Uncle Jon was a man's man; aside from Arya, she thought he must think all girls are rather silly. She still didn't understand why he and Lysa were together. Aside from the age difference Lysa seemed to barely stand the sight of him most of the time, and he barely had the patience to stand her.

 "I was just inviting Sansa here to visit our dear Robert," Lysa said warmly, patting Sansa's hand. Her gaze quickly turned to steel as she looked at Jon.

 "Oh, well, I'm sure he would love the company," Jon said indifferently. Uncle Jon cared more for car engines and horse racing than he did his own wife and son.

 "I've talked to the cook, dinner should be ready momentarily," another man stepped into the room, past Jon, coming up to the couch and kissing Cat on the cheek. 

 "Hello Sansa darling," he came up to her and kissed her on the cheek as well.

 "Father," she smiled warmly, standing up to hug him proper.

 "How are you, my sweet?" he gave her a quick hug, before skirting over to the bar to pour himself a whiskey.

 "Fine."

 "All settled in the new place?"

 "As well as could be expected."

Sansa took a moment to take him in, her "father". He was tall with broad shoulders that curved into a small, toned waist. He had been a football player in his youth and he had never lost the figure, now he was a professional polo player with many "other" investments. He had long chestnut hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match, from this angle he almost looked like...

 "Brandon," Cat called and he looked up from his task of pouring liquid into glass.

 "Yes, my love," he answered.

 "Pour me a tea, please," Cat sighed, waving her hand half-heartedly at the jug of iced tea sitting not a few meters from where she sat.

 "As you wish," he smiled warmly.

Brandon Stark, her "father" was not Sansa's real father, in fact he was his brother. Eddard Stark - a well-meaning, hard-working family man of considerable means - had passed away in a severe car accident almost five years ago. Catelyn Stark, his widow, and all their children fell into financial and emotional despair, until, of course, the rich, chivalrous older brother stepped in to lend a hand. First it was help paying off a few debts, then he was joining them for dinner every night and paying for military school for both Jon and Robb (her older brothers). Then he was staying over longer, and taking Catelyn out to dances and parties, and hosting picnics with her and the younger children down at the lake. Then he moved in, her mother agreed to marry him, they were married within the week, and then they moved out to a new, larger house, and voila! It was like Eddard Stark had barely existed at all!

Sansa had watched the whole series of events with curious eyes, knowing that her Uncle had harbored feelings for her mother since they were young. "They were almost engaged," her real father had even told her once. She'd heard the story of how Brandon had fought another boy for Catelyn's hand in his youth. As a young girl Sansa had envisioned him like one of the knights in her stories of swords and chivalry, fighting some villain for his maiden's love. But joining the military had taken precedence over marrying the girl of his dreams and he left to fight in the war, and when he returned, wounded but alive, he found his younger brother and his fiancé had fallen deeply in love while he was away. It was a very romantically tragic tale in its own right, but she could see how her Uncle - in the wake of his brother's demise - would want to come back and rekindle his boyhood romance. For that she could not hate him. He was a kindly man, who cared for her mother and her siblings, despite his want to shower them in such a rich lifestyle.  
If anything about Brandon that bugged her the most though, it was how he presumed to step right into the shoes of Ned Stark, as if to make them forget him entirely. 

Sansa looked over at Cat, who drank her tea with a distant gaze. Her mother had never been the same since Ned had died. Despite all of Brandon's care and attention, she seemed to live off in her own world most of the time, neither being truly in despair nor truly happy, just there.

 "Brandon, have you heard?" Lysa chirped up, cradling her own glass of tea.

 "Heard what, Lys?"

 "Your daughter here is living near to the famous Mr. Baelish?"

Brandon stopped what he was doing momentarily and looked over at Cat.

 "Baelish?" he asked, his voice tight. Cat seemed to come out of her state momentarily to look warily at Brandon. "Never heard of him." Brandon went back to his task, shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly.

Lysa's stare hardened slightly at the pair of them.

 "You must've, it's been in all the papers."

 "Oh! Is he...he's the bloke that holds all those extravagant parties, right?" Brandon took a sip of his whiskey and knocked it back.

Lysa was unamused.

 "A mystery man," Cat reiterated.

 "Works for the Barristers or something along those lines."

 "Lannisters," Jon muttered.

 "I'm starved and bored of this room, let's situate ourselves in the dining room before I mold into this couch," Cat dramatically swung to her feet in one smooth motion.

Brandon nodded and took his wife's hand, escorting her out of the room, followed by Jon and Lysa.

 "May I escort you?" Harry appeared behind her. Had he been there the entire time?

Sansa gaped momentarily. "Uh...sure."

 "You have a most intriguing family," Harry said as he led her out of the room.

 "Yes, quite," Sansa nodded.

 "You being the most intriguing of them all, if you don't mind me saying so," he grinned like a teasing boy.

 "I'm not really," Sansa shrugged.

 "You should let me drive you around some time, go to the races."

Races...races...Races!!

 "You're Harold Hardyng!" Sansa cried suddenly. "You're the youngest man to ever win the Grand Prix! I read an article about you in the paper not a week ago."

 "You've caught me," he grinned even more.

 "You must be friends with my father then."

 "Yes, he was the one who invited me tonight... I am a fan of his, he is an amazing polo player."

 "I know."

 "We met at a mutual friend's gathering and we got along like that!" Harry snapped his fingers.

 "So are you just visiting for a race, or..."

Harry's grin widened just a touch more. "He wanted me to come here tonight...to meet you," he leaned in slightly too close for her. "I think he thinks you and I might have something in common."

 "And that is?"

 "I am an avid poetry reader."

 "Are you?"

 "Yes, and you write beautiful poetry so I'm told. I'd like to read some of your poems, if you'd let me."

 "Uhh." Sansa blushed slightly.

 "Think about it," he smiled as he led her into the dining room and pulled out her chair for her.

Her mother was seated at one end of the table, fanning herself, her father at the other, still nursing his drink and talking idly with Jon who sat beside him. Lysa sat next to Jon but was looking down at her lap, contemplating something deep and only known to her. "Why candles?" Cat muttered, fanning the the little flame in front of her until it snuffed out.

The meal was awkward to say the least, at least in Sansa's mind. The conversation was jilted, separated between Lysa's gossip, Harry's flattery, Uncle Jon's mildly racist comments, her father's business talk and the odd random comment from her mother. Sansa could barely stand to sit at the table, instead burying her focus in her fish as if she'd never seen something so interesting. She was reminded of why she moved out in the first place.

Since her real father died her family felt disconnected; her oldest brother Jon (her half brother to be specific) left before Eddard's death to go to military school. Cat and Jon had never gotten along, mostly, (she felt), because of Jon being the product of a very poor decision on Ned's part during their first year of marriage, a mistake he went to great lengths never to repeat. Cat treated Jon no better than a stray dog she wanted no part in caring for. Her second oldest brother Robb, left to join Jon when Uncle Brandon started becoming a permanent fixture around the house. He ultimately didn't approve of his Uncle marrying his mother after only six months of grieving for his dead father. Sansa couldn't say she agreed or disagreed.   
For the longest while after her father's passing her mother was in a dreadful state, could barely leave the bed and would hardly eat more than a bite or two, if that. If it hadn't been for Brandon the family would've gone bankrupt and desolate.   
Her younger sister Arya was never around anymore, too busy with extra-curricular activities, such as dance. Her little brother Bran was crippled a few years ago from falling off the roof of their childhood home and breaking his back and barely made an appearance out of his room if he could help it. And the youngest Rickon...he was spoilt, a good natured but rather precocious little child with a slight temper and lacking social graces.

Sansa herself felt the need to explore more outside her home. She needed the space to think, to feel like herself. All this finery was a bit above her head. The butlers, the cooks, the maids...she never needed this, she preferred doing things on her own. This ostentatious lifestyle was nothing like the childhood she'd had with Ned, nothing was like that anymore. Not even her own mother.  
Depression had exhausted Cat, grief had made her complacent, and Brandon made her dream of being the young girl she had used to be when she was beautiful and he had loved her. All this had made her a shadow of the mother she was when Ned was alive. She was barely a mother now, more like a ghost of one, wafting in and out of this world and another. In truth, Sansa sometimes felt like Cat was another person entirely nowadays. 

Suddenly, Cat's hand reached over to her and grasped hers, a warm, but distant smile on her face.

 "So, what do you think?" she asked in a low voice. Brandon had engaged the rest of the table in a conversation about the recent book - on the dangers of poverty on the economy and how the rich "white" male should be a model for the other classes - that he was reading. "Enlightening" he referred to it. It was nothing more than a piece of paranoid penny-pincher propaganda. Written for men to justify men's stupidity. Sansa was glad for the distraction.

 "The fish is excellent," Sansa nodded. 

 "Not the food, silly girl," Cat laughed. "Harry." She lowered her voice another decibel. 

 "Harry?" Sansa peered over at the blonde man seated only inches next to her. "Uh...he seems nice."

 "I was hoping you'd like him, he gets along with your father quite well," Cat murmured. 

Sansa sighed internally. Of course her mother was trying to set her up with some rich, famous car racer. It was like Cat was scared of her being alone with her thoughts for too long. Sansa had always had to be the perfectly sociably acceptable daughter. Arya could play with her brothers in the mud, or sword fight with the neighbor kids, but pretty little Sansa had to be pink and dainty and learn to sew and darn socks and host tea services. Arya could run away with the circus if she liked but Sansa was groomed to become a lady of means. At least, since Ned died anyway. Ned had encouraged her to be a writer, and pursue her creative passion. It took hours of convincing for Sansa to even get Cat and Brandon to allow her to go to High Garden with Margeary. She thought she had gotten through to them, apparently she wasn't as successful as she thought.  
he immediately began to feel ill at the sight of him. Was this whole evening a set up?

 "Are you two gossiping about me?" Harry turned to them with a sickly sweet smile.

 "Just admiring your career," Sansa said cooly.

 "My career you say?"

 "Yes, quite a feat for someone so young to win the Grand Prix," Lysa chirped in, as if sensing Sansa's discomfort.

 "Just skill and a dash of luck," Harry shrugged, as if it meant nothing.

Brandon laughed whole-heartedly, grasping his belly and throwing his head back slightly. The food he was chewing only slightly falling out of his mouth. Uncle Jon made a slightly amused "heh" sound.

 "A dash of luck! Ha!" Brandon chortled. "Ahh, that's a good one."

Sansa gave a weak smile "Yes."

 "And what about you Sansa? I hear you're an educated woman?" Harry grinned at her.

 "I went to school in High Garden."

 "For what?"

 "Business."

 "Heh," Harry half-laughed, trying to smother his amusement. "And how did that work out for you?"

 "Excellent," Sansa said defiantly. "I got a job working for Tyrell Bonds and Litigation."

 "Really?" Harry almost seemed impressed.

 "As a secretary," Brandon added.

 "Ah." Sansa glowered at Brandon. "Must be decent pay," shrugged Harry, trying to be polite. Sansa glared at him as well.

 "It's enough for me," she said tightly.

 "So, I can assume marriage and children are not high on your priorities, are they?"

 "No."

 "They didn't use to be," commented Brandon. "Our little bird here was almost engaged once."

 "Was she now?" Harry teased.

Sansa's eyes widened in horror. "Uh, no, I wasn't."

 "Yes, you were, I remember it clear as day. Joff, Jeff...Joffrey! That's it! You were practically head over heels for the little fellow."

 "You're mistaken..."

Joffrey, as his name was, was the worst decision she believed she had ever made in her young life. He was some pre-law trust fund snot, who had charmed her off her feet the moment she had stepped foot into High Garden. The relationship was brief but the rumors had spread like wildfire. He was now engaged to her best friend and was best left un-thought about.

 "Look at her," Brandon teased mercilessly. "See how she blushes. Have you ever seen something so adorable?" He grinned with a playful fatherly pride as he shoveled another mouthful into his maw.

 "It brings out her freckles," Harry agreed, teasing her. Sansa gripped the edge of her chair tightly, her nails biting into the polished wood.

 "Stop it, Brandon! You're embarrassing the poor girl," Cat interjected.

You are all embarrassing me.

 "This is highly inappropriate for the dinner table. I had merely suggested to Sansa that she should attend one of Harry's races," Cat skirted around the issue artfully, like she always does.

 "Marvelous! Nothing like seeing a man in action," Brandon nodded.

 "I couldn't agree more, but I would wait for one of my bigger races towards the end of the summer, right now all I'm doing are little bunny races against amateurs to keep my skills sharp."

 "Well then, perhaps we could all go to the horse derby," suggested Brandon. 

 "Now there is an idea!" nodded Jon. 

The conversation was cut off by the butler entering and making a polite "ahem" to Brandon.  He leant in and whispered a few words to him and all the warmth in Brandon's face seemed to drop momentarily. “Uh, excuse me for just a moment," he smiled falsely, and brought the napkin from his lap to wipe his chin and dropped it unceremoniously on his place setting. Sansa could sense the tension in his shoulders as he got up and quickly marched out of the room. Cat's eyes followed him with almost an icy coldness in their deep blue depths. She turned to Sansa and smiled, cupping her cheek with a warm hand.

 "Look at my daughter, Harry, doesn't she...doesn't she remind you of a - of a rose?" Cat smiled warmly at her, fingering Sansa's long red hair. "An absolute rose."

Harry's eyes twinkled slightly as he chuckled and nodded. Sansa nearly scoffed; she didn't really feel like much of a rose, she often felt more like a bird, a caged song bird or little blue bird trapped behind a pane of glass trying to break through into the wild. Though she didn't say a word in response to her mother's sudden affections, truly, the warmth and love in her gaze reminded Sansa of the mother she had in her childhood, and she would do nothing to squelch it out.

In the blink of an eye Cat drifted away again, lurching to her feet and dropping her napkin on the table beside her plate. "Excuse me." She said tersely through a false geniality as she walked briskly out of the dining room, following Brandon out. The whole event felt odd to Sansa. She looked awkwardly around to the rest of the dinner guests, sipping awkwardly at their iced tea, their ears only subtly tilted towards the open door. You could just hear, coming from the parlor, their hosts talking. The words were muddled, and the voices were low, but even Sansa could tell they were having an argument over whatever had drawn Brandon from the table.

 "So...Harry, this Baelish fellow you mentioned earlier, I believe he is my neighbor..."

 "Shh, child!" Lysa hissed. "I want to hear this."

 "Hear what? What's happening?" A clang of a phone was heard from the other room.

 "Oh, I suppose you don't know, do you?" Lysa eyed Sansa with what almost seemed a look of pity.

 "Lysa..." Jon warned lowly. Lysa met his gaze with a cool one of her own and then bit her lip, averting her eyes down to her plate, then back up to Sansa's.

 "Never you mind, child."

As if on cue, her parents waltzed back in as if they had simply stepped out for a smoke. Cat smiling and waving her fan, if only a little bit more intensely than before.

 "Ah, this heat, it can't be helped!" Cat attempted to break the obvious tension in the room. "I was just looking outside, you should see the view Sansa." Cat's hand came up to rest over top hers on the table. "The sun is just setting under the horizon. It's simply stunning. Very romantic. Don't you think so Harry?" Sansa tried not to glower at Cat's none-too-subtle suggestion, and felt her ears grow hot from the humiliation of it all.

 "Sansa..." Lysa stood up suddenly. "I need some fresh air, would you like to join me out on the veranda?" Sansa did not hesitate to take her up on her offer, launching to her feet as well and practically speed-walking out of the room, keeping her head down low as to not catch any of their faces. Lysa followed leisurely and closed the bay doors behind them as they stepped into the cool evening air.

 "Thank you Aunt Lysa."

 "Please, just call me Lysa, you're not a girl anymore," Lysa bit slightly, crossing her frail arms against the wind.

 "Thank you...Lysa. For getting me out of there."

Lysa instantly softened and placed a hand comfortingly on the girl's arm. "Oh, I know what it's like - to be pawned off to the highest bidder because of fear you'll never make it on the merits of your own dreams -your own wishes." Lysa stared off, her head turning towards the lake. Sansa saw it then, a green gleam. From the end of the her family's dock she could see the bright beacon sending it's beckoning green light out to the wandering souls who yearned for it. (So this is the source of it.) Lysa seemed to be drawn to it as well. "I never wanted to marry him, you know," Lysa continued. Sansa didn't have to ask who she meant, she knew. "There was someone else." The green light seemed to catch in Lysa's eyes as she spoke.  "He was sweet, and kind. He used to give us flowers, and play little games with us. He made me feel beautiful," Lysa's hand came up to lightly caress her stomach in some fond remembrance. "The sweetest smiles, the sweetest kisses. Dreams beyond anything I could ever imagine. He gave her his heart and I gave him my..." she trailed off, her hand dropping back to her side. "And they destroyed him."

 "Who did?" Sansa finally asked.

 "All of them," she hissed. "They destroyed him and forced me to marry that...man." Lysa turned away from the green light and smiled warmly again. "It was a long time ago," she waved it off. "All I meant is...I understand what it feels like to have no one understand your dreams." Lysa leaned over and kissed her cheek. This was the closest she'd ever felt with her strange aunt, it was if she had peeled back the edge of the curtain, and showed her a peek of what lay behind it. "I've become very cynical these days," Lysa sighed. "Makes me long for simpler happier times.” Sansa lifted her arms and gently hugged her dear aunt. Lysa's arms came around her in response, her hands coming to rest on Sansa's shoulders. The hug was amiable - kind, and sympathetic - the first real moment Sansa thought she had ever shared with the woman.  
As quickly as this moment had come, so it went, and the woman's grip on her shoulders tightened around her almost threateningly. "Did I ever tell you about when I was pregnant with Robert?" Lysa hissed into Sansa's ear. 

Sansa squirmed uncomfortingly. "N-no."

 "The doctor told me he was going to be a girl. I was going to have a beautiful, healthy girl. And do you know what I did when he told me that?" Sansa shook her head. "I wept. I turned my head and wept and said "I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she is a fool, a beautiful little fool." Sansa felt a fear trembling in her gut and she debated calling out for help. "That's really the best thing for a girl, you know. Prancing around like there isn't a thought in her head, all pretty and bouncy and delicate. Not cynical or sophisticated. God Sansa, you and I are sophisticated! And look at us!" Lysa released Sansa and pushed her away, going back to staring out at the green light. "You should really come and visit Robert, he would love to see you." Lysa said after a moment, the biting tone of her last sentence suddenly gone.

 "I-I will."

 "He just turned ten, did I tell you that? Ten years." Lysa turned her face to her and smiled warmly once again. "When did life start going by so fast?" Sansa shrugged, not able to find words to say to this woman. "Maybe later, once you've settled," Lysa patted her arm comfortingly.

Sansa nodded. Lysa sighed. "I'm tired, I think it's time for us to go home and return to Robert." With that, the woman turned and went inside, calling to her husband to get the car started.

Sansa sucked in a breath of relief. It wasn't right of her to be so negative about her own family, especially her poor aunt. Her mother had even said it herself, Aunt Lysa never had the chance to make the life she wanted for herself. Sansa just never understood how deep it truly went. She knew her maternal grandfather was a hard man with great expectations. Cat had been expected to marry someone of means and some sort of standing, like Brandon or even Ned. Lysa, was probably under the same scrutiny. Maybe she could've at one point...maybe Jon was the only one who would have her. Sansa had never met her grandfather and was almost grateful for it.  
The green beacon caught her eye once more. She could still feel the invisible hand of her mysterious neighbor's gaze. So strong for something so brief...and practically in the shadows too. She could not tell you the color of his eyes, but she could describe in picture perfect detail what it felt like to be watched by them. It was something she had never experienced with anyone in her life ever.

When she left the veranda and went back inside, Brandon, Harry and Cat were still seated at the table. Cat smiled airily at her.

 "Sansa, my dear would you like some coffee?" she offered.

 "Uh, no, I should really be heading home now, it's getting late."

Cat seemed to deflate a little at that. "Shame. Bran will be sorry he missed you."

 "I'll come back to visit him later, when he's feeling better," Sansa nodded.

"It's too late Sansa, why not sleep here, you can borrow Arya's room,” Brandon chimed in.

 "Is she at a sleepover?"

 "Camp...summer camp," Brandon said unblinkingly, his expression unreadable.

 "So soon?" Cat sighed airily. "I thought that wasn't for another few weeks."

 "It was today," Brandon nodded sternly. 

 "Oh my...did I say goodbye?" 

Sansa felt a slight anger burn in the back of her mind. This was the kind of mother Cat had become, and it was a far cry from the mother she used to be. To not even realize what was going on with her own children.

  "I'll be fine, it's not that long of a drive anyway," Sansa said politely.

 "Let Harry take you, I'll have Brandon drive the Dodge to you tomorrow," Cat insisted. The thought of spending more time with Harry at this particular moment made Sansa feel a little queasy. 

"No, it's alright. Not worth the trouble, I'm sure Harry would like to go home as well."

 "Oh, he's staying with us for the summer, your father insisted," Cat grinned, taking her daughters arm. "We have him set up in the guest room. I'm intending for the two of you to spend a lot of time together." Sansa felt her ears get hot again.

 "The moment your mother met Harry she was determined to set the two of you up," Brandon, clapped Harry's back. 

 "You won't even know I'm doing it," Cat seemed to giggle. "I've planned all these subtle little ways for you to spend some time together."

 "Short of pushing you into a closet and locking the door," Brandon chuckled. Sansa burned with embarrassment.

 "Harry, will you walk her out?" asked Cat, smiling sweetly, before kissing Sansa on the cheek. "Goodnight darling, please visit again soon, this house is drab without your life in it."

 "Goodnight sweetheart," Brandon gave her a hug and kissed the side of her head. Sansa quickly turned and left, having no more words left to say to them. Harry followed after her, quietly amused.

As she reached the front steps she sucked in a deep breath and let out a groan, burying her face in her hands. Harry chuckled. "I'm sorry," he came up beside her. "They're quite invasive aren't they?"

 "You have no idea," Sansa sighed.

 "Well don't worry," he smiled, leaning in. "I don't plan on getting married either." He whispered conspiratorially. Sansa met his eyes. "I'm sorry for the teasing," he smirked. "It must've felt a little embarrassing...and you do look very sweet when you blush." Sansa just eyed him warily, not saying or moving or anything. "But, if it makes you feel better, I do want to get to know you better...I really do like poetry," he held out his hand for her. "If you want to make a new friend...get your parents off your back, who knows...it could be fun."

Sansa smirked slightly, hesitantly reaching out her hand to grasp his. "Friends?"

Harry nodded. "Just friends, maybe partners in crime." He winked. "We'll see." The wink he gave her reminded her of her neighbor on the dock the night before who had winked at her in almost a similar fashion. Something about Harry made her trust him...a little. Sansa bowed her head in silent agreement.

 "Till next we meet," Harry took her hand and kissed the knuckles. "Sansa."

With that he disappeared back inside, leaving Sansa standing stunned on the front step. There was more to Harry than she initially thought, perhaps she had found an ally in her quest to get out of the reach of her parents control...or maybe he was more trickier than she gave him credit for. Sansa decided not to put Harry in any category until she got to know him better.  
After regaining her composure Sansa descended the steps and got into the driver's seat of her dodge. It was now or never if she ever wanted to make her retreat from this strange place.

The drive home was quiet as Sansa mulled over the events that had transpired that evening.   
First off her mother...she was like a phantom; floating from one thought to the other, never truly taking form, forever in a corporeal state of being. Then there was her father being depressed...by a book no less. It wasn't that Brandon Stark was illiterate or anything but he was a jock, a man's man, the newspaper was his favorite form of fiction, the sports pages his Bible. The idea of him sitting and reading a book of ideas...social and economic ideas no less! - something must be troubling him on another level, she figured.  
Then there was Aunt Lysa. Sansa still couldn't shake the chills that, that woman had ran down her spine. Her aunt had always been a little sporadic, at least emotionally. She had the ability to go from completely calm to outrageously virile, to calm again in the span of seconds. It was more disconcerting than anything. Sansa could still hear her biting hiss in her ear, the words she had said, as clouded as they were. What did she mean by all that?  
And of course, lastly, there was Harry. He was charming, seemingly kind, playful, possibly intelligent. There was so much he could be, not a whole lot that he was, or at least, what she knew to be him for certain. He could almost be an enigma, if he wasn't so...boyish. 

Sansa turned her Dodge around the corner heading into the Eyrie. So named because the industrial work houses and sweatshops that painted its landscape lent an air of hazy creepiness to the stretch of oil marked desert. At least at night. With King's Landing glittering in the distance like a diamond in the sand of the horizon; the lights and promises of dreams to come emanating from the Fingers to the West; and the quiet complacency of wealth and comfort of Winterfell behind her - the Eyrie felt like a ghost town of poverty and lechery stewing in its own miserable squalor in the middle of it all. It was caged in, protected almost by the wealth and grandeur that surrounded it. Protected by it, but not affected by it.

Sansa kept her head down low and her foot on the pedal. This was not a place you wanted to drive around too slowly at this time of night. Drunkards and thieves; lowlives and ne'er-do-wells crept in the shadows. A lone lady with a haunting red dress lingered at one lamp post, a knee expose and dangling out to attract wary eyes to its source. Sansa liked to pretend she wasn't who she was, just another woman, standing on the street, looking for a change of fate to take her far away from here. That didn't stop a twinge in her gut when she saw a car come along and stop before the woman. 

What other kind of creatures lurked in these parts at this hour?

Sansa turned down another street. She could see The Vale, Lysa's home, coming into view just up the road. The main house was a rickety looking contraption of stone and mortar, it looked like a shrunken down castle perched precariously on top of a greasy car garage, with two gas pumps in front of it, and attached to the hip with a dingy little apartment complex that looked liked it harbored the most ambiguous of souls, maybe a criminal or two. Lysa's income came from playing landlady while Jon's came from fixing up, buying and reselling old beaten cars. The whole place was surrounded by a large stone border with a metal gate, isolating what little decrepit world lay inside from the dusty, dingy, dark little world that surrounded the outside. The only thing Sansa could say that was truly interesting about the place was the strangely ornate gate that held as barrier from one world to the next. It was made of colored glass and gilded steel, almost like a stained glass window, though not quite as elaborate. The image set in the black metal was that of a moon and star. The moon gate. The few times that Sansa has ever visited her Aunt's home in her life, she was always captivated by the simple image set against bleak stone and grey concrete. The diamond in the ruff, or something like that.

Sansa slowed her car down as she drove past the eerie building, her eye going up to the single light on at the top of the house, shining above the smog of the industrial factories that surrounded it. 

For the first time looking at this dreary place, Sansa was suddenly hit with a feeling of pity. Or maybe it was understanding. Ned had talked about Lysa as being a girl of many dreams, very few which became reality. Sansa never understood what he meant until now. 

A shadow flickered across the window and Sansa saw her, just a glimpse, wearing a pale green robe as she unpinned her long wavy hair in front of a worn vanity. From where she was, it almost looked like Lysa was a young girl again, delicately combing her hair and humming a wordless song to herself. Letting her mind wander to more sweeter times.

“I never wanted to marry him, you know.”

Sansa felt something stir in her gut as she heard a trashcan lid bang and joggle on to its base. Her uncle Jon had stepped out of the house to take out the garbage and have a smoke, Sansa could just see his tall lanky frame leaning against the side of the house; the red glow of the cigarette smoldering like a little star in the stark darkness.  
There was more to her estranged family than she had first thought, and it suddenly put their sullen existence into a new light. Maybe Lysa was caged away in this miserable place. Maybe Sansa had more in common with her strange aunt than she realized.

Before she could be spotted by either of them Sansa turned her car back on to the road and continued driving. It was getting darker, and if she didn't pay attention she could very well miss her turn to get to the Fingers. Luckily, there was enough light emanating from the mansion beside her home to act like a guide in the darkness. Cars of screaming, singing, caterwauling party-goers streamed past her. Waving noise-makers and flags, throwing beads and flowers as if it was gold or confetti. Sansa was almost relieved to see the crowd dissipating at this time, she was much too tired to stay up late again tonight; the peace and quiet would be welcomed.

Sansa mentally calculated her evening in her head. Maybe she'd have a bath, relax her muscles, journal, make some tea, water her garden, and by the time she was done with all that the party would have gone down enough to allow her to get some rest. She liked this plan; it was a good plan...that is, until she got closer to her home. Despite the flurry of vehicles and their patrons that she had passed on the way here, the party was still in full swing, with even more people than the night before celebrating inside. 

Her dreams of an early sleep dashed, Sansa decided to continue with the plan she had made. If she drank a bit more tea than usual, and relaxed her muscles very well, she could exhaust herself into sleep and the noise won't even bother her. That was the hope, anyway.

The bath was full and hot, and she even put in a dab of lavender oil to ease her nerves, but not even all that seemed to be able to unclench her muscles. The tea didn't do much either. She drank almost four cups, went to the washroom five times, and by the fifth cup she gave up, tossing the rest of the water in the sink. In her nightwear and slippers she walked out into the cool evening, her skin flush from the tea, and exhaled, breathing in the smell of the sea. Watering her garden actually managed to relax her a bit. She spent all of this morning gardening and had managed to plant some flower bulbs and herb seeds before she had to depart for the family dinner from hell.

When she was done with her plants she grabbed her journal and went to sit outside on the bench she had put near the edge of the shoreline, so she could enjoy the sound of the waves, and feel the sand between her toes. She didn't get far into her journal when she happened to look up, and then she saw him.

Standing at the edge of his dock again, one hand in his pocket, the other fingering his pocket watch by his side.

The green light from across the lake was focused on his silhouette, bathing him in an ethereal glow, making him look otherworldly. Sansa stood up, leaving her journal on the bench as she walked closer to him. Mr. Baelish. She almost wanted to call out to him, get his attention. They were neighbors now, it wasn't wholly inappropriate. Maybe he could tell her why she felt so drawn to him. Maybe, if she saw the man, talked to him, some of his mystery would wear off and he would stop haunting her thoughts.

She had almost opened her mouth to speak but the sound died in her throat when she saw his arms move, and stretch out before him, once again. Reaching for the green light. 

Was it for the light? Or was it for what the light represented? Was it at the light at all? So many questions raced through her mind as she stared at him.

A cat, a stray of some sort, pounced from the ivy wall separating Baelish's home from her to the top of her tin garden shed, resulting in a loud resounding clang, jarring Sansa out of her mesmerization. The cat mewled mockingly, as if teasing her, then skittered off to chase a mouse.  
When Sansa looked back at the dock Littlefinger had gone, as if he had dissipated into the fog. 

Sansa shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling chilled and more than a little unnerved. She turned around quickly, and darted back inside, leaving her journal on the bench where she had placed it. 

That night she lay in bed contemplating all of the day's events. Between her Aunt's bizarre behavior, the weird message that had sent her father out of the dining room, her mother forgetting about Arya going to summer camp, Harry making an agreement with her, and her neighbor being...well Littlefinger as far as she was concerned - Sansa suddenly felt very alone. All alone in the unquiet darkness, surrounded by enigmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few changes and characters shifts but for the most part this story follows the structure of The Great Gatsby.


	3. Chapter 3

The day smelt foul. Like ashes, and burnt hair. It made Sansa wrinkle her nose as they passed through the dust bowl valley that was The Eyrie. 

 "Can you try not to look so sullen?" Brandon's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. It was times like these he almost seemed to channel her real father. His voice would soften and nearly match the quiet kindness of Ned Stark, but his eyes always belied the true Stark inside. He was Brandon, through and through. 

 "I'm not sullen," Sansa sighed. 

 "Look Sans, I know the idea of spending the afternoon with your Aunt Lysa is probably not the most ideal..." Ideal it was certainly not. "...but your Aunt has been begging you to come visit for weeks now. To spend some time with your ailing cousin. The more you avoid her, the more she's going to think you - "

 "I'm not avoiding her!" Sansa cried. "I've been busy. Work has me swamped." In truth she had been avoiding this dreaded visit. In no measurable way could it be pleasant. Her aunt's high strung emotions, her Uncle's brusque manner, and her cousin's spoiled nature were not generally pleasant company, especially trapped all together in one house for an entire afternoon.

 "Well, then it's lucky I just so happened to be driving out that way to visit Uncle Jon, then, isn't it?" teased Brandon.

 "Yes, lucky," Sansa sighed.

 "Would you have preferred taking the train?" He teased in a fatherly manner.

 "No...driving is fine," Sansa tried to smile. It only made Brandon chuckle.

 "You're a horrible liar, sweetheart," he clucked his tongue at her and she scowled at him.

 "Did Mom put you up to this?"

 "What would ever give you that impression?" he shrugged innocently.

 "Why would Mom insist I visit my estranged cousin when she herself can't be bothered to leave the house?" Sansa eyed him warily.

 "Maybe she thinks that you will benefit from Lysa's business experience. She does run an apartment complex."

Sansa fixed him with an incredulous stare. Did he really think that would work? Whatever - it wasn't funny.

 "You're a horrible liar, father," she mocked.

Brandon chuckled. "Honestly, Lysa has been requesting you to visit for weeks now. When I called yesterday to talk to your Uncle Jon about meeting with him today, Lysa snatched the phone out of his hand and ordered as prettily as she could for me to drag you along as well."

 "I could've been busy."

 "It's Sunday."

 "So that automatically means I have nothing to do?"

 "Nothing that can't wait to be done until later. Besides, there's some lovely people that occupy the building you might actually enjoy meeting."

 "Like who?"

 "Marillion is about your age. Lysa says he is quite a charming fellow."

 "I have enough men Mom is trying to set me up with, I don't need another," Sansa sighed.

 "Come now. Harry is a charming chap," Brandon teased.

 "You know, don't you!" Sansa sat up in her seat in an accusatory manner. 

 "Know what, sweetling?" he grinned.

 "You know that Harry has no interest in being my suitor, and yet you teased me mercilessly about it," Sansa swapped his thick shoulder with the back of her hand.

 "Your mother was dead serious," Brandon tried to say sternly.

 "That's besides the point! It was all a joke to you and Harry, and you couldn't help but play along! What the hell is wrong with this family!" Sansa sat back, flailing her hands wildly. "And you just had to bring up Joffrey, like that isn't an embarrassment in and of itself, but why not bring it up for the whole world to know! Let's just take out an article in the Crow! "Sansa Stark almost married a Jerk!", what a headline that would make!"

Brandon was almost in tears by this point and nearly steered into a passing vehicle from how hard he was laughing. "I'm sorry!" he managed to say through his laughter. "But you should've seen your face, sweetie. All beet red and angry. Kind of like it is now."

 "And mother wonders why I don't want to get married," Sansa sighed, crossing her arms.

 "Trust me, sweetheart, once Harry has left by September she'll have forgotten about it completely. You'll just have to suffer until then."  
The car slowed to idling as the bridge over the river connecting East to West was raised to let a passing barge in underneath. Brandon turned to Sansa and smiled, fatherly. "There is also someone I would like you to meet, I think you'll like her," he patted Sansa's arm. "For real."

Just like that Sansa cooled off from her tirade. Brandon was being genuine; his genuine warmth was hard to stay mad at. It was the one thing about him that put him closest to Ned, at least in her eyes. "All right," she conceded, nodding her head.

The trip was relatively calm after that. As the bridge lowered and they entered into the ashy realms of the Eyrie. The ash here was farmed like wheat, and stockpiled, and grew by the thousands to create ridges, mountains and hills. The ashes formed into houses and buildings, chimneys and smoke; and finally -with a transcending effort - into the people of the Eyrie itself. The further you went in the harder it became to distinguish ash from flesh.  
Rising above the multitude of ash-beings, like a tower - was a billboard, well worn, and aged much like the ash formations around it. The image on the board may have once belonged to some sort of eye doctor, or something of the like, but due to years of wear, dust and rain; fading paint, and some young hoodlums with a certain artistic prowess, the billboard turned from a comfortable image of a large set of blue eyes staring unblinkingly above the ashy smoke below, to that of a three-eyed crow, with red, daunting and fearful irises that watched over its ashy flock like a vulture. The words: "He Knows" written in red underneath. Who "he" was and what knowledge he seemingly possessed were about as vague and cryptic as tarot cards. The original meaning was lost with whoever had painted the image, but the unnerving aspect of it all, that could not be shaken.

Right underneath that sign, sitting a top the rest of the Eyrie like a castle in its kingdom was her Aunt's apartment building. The Vale. The Queen of Ash presiding over the city of ashes. The closer you came to the building the less castle-like it became, as you realized it was just the largest building in the whole valley. From the farthest point though, you could see the strange architectural phenomenon that was the Vale Apartments. On the roof, the stone and cement seemed to coil and swoop, as if made with clay, into the shape of a crescent moon and star overtop an archway - a doorway to nowhere - the moon door, as it was called by some of the local folk who had nothing better to do than make up fantastical stories for the little ash children that played in the streets. Below the puzzling conundrum of the roof design was the grey and yellow brick and wood structure that was, altogether, a strange mishmash of architectural design. The main house sat atop a small two-bay garage and spiraled upwards like a lopsided turret. Attached to that was a square block three floors tall that connected to the east wall of the house then curved away slightly and formed into a triangle. It was a confusing building to look at from any angle. 

God, Sansa loathed this place.

The car pulled up and stopped in front of the yellow-grey building. Brandon stepped out first, firmly readjusting his jacket and smoothing the wrinkles out of his navy suit pants. Sansa did not move so quickly, instead taking the time to look up at the glittering moon gate that served as entrance to this less-than-fantastical castle.

It still smelt foul.

 "You can't stay in there forever," Brandon teased.

 "I won't," Sansa sighed. "I'm just...bracing myself for...you know..."

 "I know," Brandon nodded.

 "What are the chances that today is one of the days they're..."

 "Normal?" Brandon finished for her. That wasn't exactly what she meant but she shrugged anyways. Close enough.

 "Fat chance," Brandon smirked.

Sansa sighed again. "I had a feeling you'd say that." She finally got out of the car. She momentarily regretted wearing a light cream blouse and pink skirt that day. She should've worn chain mail, or at least something a little stain-resistant, if she remembered anything about her spoiled little cousin correctly. 

 "You look fine," Brandon tried to assure her. Instead of protesting she just sighed once more, bucking up her courage.

The grounds of the complex were desolate, unsurprisingly. Filled with a menagerie of run down cars and tire piles and the odd engine and displaced car part. The yard also featured a rusted old swing set, an assortment of cigarette butts, and Sansa's personally favorite, a stuffed falcon that had sat out for too many rainy days. It was like a graveyard for automobiles, minus the one or two that actually seemed to be in working condition.

 "Restoration Projects" as Uncle Jon liked to call his little metal collection. "I shall have a fleet one day."

Sansa looked around at her Uncle's "fleet". Very impressive...for a junk man.

 "Has Uncle Jon actually ever completed a car?" Sansa said out loud as they walked through the yard.

 "At least one or two."

 "Hasn't he been doing this his entire life?"

Brandon chuckled at that. "Not all. He was a soldier in the war, just like I was."

 "I see."

 "Jon's a simple man of simple pleasures."

Sansa nodded, her eyes darting up to the top window where she knew her aunt resided.

 "Indeed."

 "Come."

Brandon led her around the front of the of the building to the garage that was attached to an open road leading to the main stretch of roadway that delved further into the ash paradise of the Eyrie. Inside it was sparse, unprosperous, much like the metal graveyard surrounding it. In the corner, half-covered by a dusty old canvas was a load of scrap metal that Sansa thought used to be a Ford. The whole place smelt like car oil, hopelessness and dust bunnies.

The more romantic part of Sansa seemed to suggest that all of this (the garage and yard) belied some sort of grandiose interior. A renovated hotel out of some romantic fiction with deep crimson velvet colors and gold crowning. It would smell of the old world, of glamour and ballrooms, cigar smoke and faintly of daisies and forget-me-nots. The exterior was merely a blind, a trick to sway unwanted tenants from entering into this sacred order, nestled in the valley of ashes. 

Her Uncle coughed, dragging Sansa from her whimsical thoughts. He was leaning against the door to what looked to be his office, or some manifestation of one, anyways. He was wiping his left hand on a filthy rag, (unsure whether it was cleaning the mess or causing it) and staring at the pair of them with his opulent ice blue eyes.

 "Jon!" Brandon greeted warmly. "How are you old man?"

Jon shrugged with a gruff "hmpf", tucking his rag back into his breast pocket. Jon Arryn was tall and wiry looking, his shoulders were broad and permanently hunched forward from years of bending over car engines. His face was narrow and pulled down, making him always look like he was scowling, or in any case displeased. His hair had once been blonde, and he may have once been handsome, but time and cynicism had worn down both to a dull grey.

 "Can't complain," he muttered. "You finally here to sell me that old car of yours?"

Car? What old car?

 "I'm having my guy look at it and I should have it to you by the end of next week," Brandon said easily.

 "Your guy is taking his sweet time," Jon said humorlessly.

 "These things do take time," Brandon chuckled good-naturedly.

 "I know, I know," Jon waved him off.

 "If it's a problem I could just take it somewhere else," Brandon said teasingly, but it did not stop Jon from bristling ever-so-slightly. "No. No. Don't - don't be like that. You know what I meant, Bran."

Brandon chuckled once again. "I know. I'm just teasing ya."

Jon's gaze finally seemed to find Sansa. “Ello Sansa," he greeted, however coldly.

 "Hello, uh, Uncle."

 "Jon, please," he huffed. "I've always felt uncomfortable with the moniker "Uncle", sounds old and distant."

Then it is a perfect name for you.

 "Eh, Jon!" A voice rang through the hollow garage, like a sweet bell. "Your wife would like to know if you want turkey or egg on your - oh!"

As if from another world, a beauteous creature had emerged - of auburn hair (closer to brown than to red), effortless grace, pendulum hips, and sumptuous curves from calf to collarbone. Even the dust seemed to part for her as she walked into the room.

 "I didn't realize you had company."

 "Ros," Jon acknowledged. "You know my brother-in-law Brandon."

 "I never forget a face," she smiled at him.

 "And my niece, Sansa."

 "Oh my! She is pretty." Ros turned to Sansa and began walking closer to her, completely dominating the young girl's vision. "I'm Ros," a graceful porcelain hand reached forth to shake hers. "I live here. I'm practically the help." Her eyes twinkled.

 "We pay you," huffed Jon.

 "Yes and in return I answer calls, I cook, I clean, I wash, I even help run your little business," she leaned in closer to Sansa. "In short: I'm not being paid enough." Sansa tried to suppress a smirk. She liked this woman whoever she was. "Lysa's expecting you I believe," she turned to Brandon. "She and Sweetrobin have been making a fuss all morning trying to get the place ready for tea time."

 "Why don't you take Sansa in while Jon and I discuss...uh, man stuff."

 "Oh yes, cars and cocks, very interesting candor," Ros winked with an effortless smile. "I'm sure I can find something to entertain this little bird with." Ros took Sansa by the hand and began leading her to the small stairwell that led to the main house.

 "You have twenty minutes before Lysa calls the dogs, I suggest you get yourselves washed up before tea," Ros called down to the two men. "Don't make me have to come back down here, I assure you, it will not be pretty."

Brandon chuckled and waved in acknowledgement. "I doubt it!" 

Jon shrugged, disinterested.

Sansa turned her attention back to the beautiful woman. "Come on, let's get out to the balcony and have a light," she grinned mischievously and dragged Sansa through the halls of the less-than-illustrious home. Sansa was only slightly disappointed to see it was as grim and lifeless as the exterior.

A hidden stairwell took them to a narrow corridor, that led to a rickety ladder, that led to a small balcony hidden by the walls of the apartment complex. It was no bigger than the inside of an elevator and just as wide. Two unwatered plants sat dead in the corners, and a gaudy iron railing outlined its borders. It was quiet though, and shaded against the fierce summer sun. In that aspect it was a nice hide-out.

 "You looked like you could use a breather," Ros smiled at Sansa, pulling a pack of Camels and a lighter from her bodice. "You smoke?" Sansa shook her head. "Wanna go?"

 "Uh, no...thank you."

Ros shrugged and lit herself one. "So tell me Sansa," Ros leant against the railing, blowing out a plume of smoke. "What's a pretty bird like you doing here in the Eyrie?"

Sansa felt a little flustered by the question. "Uh, visiting, I guess."

 "Mrs. Arryn's your aunt, right?"

 "She is my mother's sister, yes."

 "And your mother is married to Brandy, ain't she?"

Sansa had almost guffawed at Ros' nickname for her father. "Yes, he is my step-father."

 "Step-father, you say?" this woman had a remarkable way of making her want to tell her everything, despite the fact that she probably didn't need to know it.

 "Yes. Brandon was my real father's brother. He died about five years ago."

 "So he's your uncle-father?" Ros said blankly. Sansa nodded. "Sounds complicated."

Sansa laughed. "Well when you put it like that it does sound a bit...screwy."

Ros shrugged. "Who am I to judge? Just curious. I've never seen any of Lysa's family come here before, 'crept for Brandy, of course. I just wanted to be sure I got all my facts right."

 "My family is...all over the place, so..."

Ros smiled at her, making Sansa trail off. "Ugh! Will you just relax, little bird? I'm not interrogating you!" Ros laughed handing her the cigarette. "Please! Take a drag before your head explodes." Sansa hesitantly took the cigarette from the woman's hand, bringing it up to her lips cautiously then taking a tentative puff of it before throwing herself into a fit of coughs. Ros laughed and took the cigarette from her, her other hand coming to run smoothing circles on Sansa's back. "Shhh," she cooed, soothingly. "Your father has told me a lot about you Sansa. I think he wants us to be friends."

Sansa stopped coughing. "Are you and he friends?"

 "We chat from time to time. Whenever he's around."

 "Oh."  

 "Brandy's a good fella, seems to care a lot about you and your mother." The woman's expression seemed to fade slightly as she snuffed her cigarette out on the black metal grating before tossing the butt into one of the neglected flower pots.

 "I'm sure he does," Sansa watched the woman warily. She didn't really know what to think about this woman and her "interest" in her family.

 "Has he said anything about me to you?" Ros's gaze flitted up and Sansa swallowed a dry lump. Thankfully she was saved from answering by the shrill shriek of her aunt.

 "Ros!"

"Ah. Hiding's over. Now the party begins." Ros once again grabbed Sansa's arm. "I would like us to be friends, Sansa, if you'd let me."

 "Uh..."

 "Think about it...if you should ever need to talk. You know where I am." With that Ros ducked inside and back down the ladder. 

Why was the world suddenly obsessed with Sansa having a friend? She had friends! Granted, she rarely saw them because they all lived in the city - her best friend especially she had to avoid due to her current fiancé being...well someone worth avoiding. That didn't mean that Sansa was going to die decrepit and alone in that little cabin. Quite the opposite. Since she has moved there her social life had been booming. She was well-liked at work; favored by the boss (she was the only one who knew how to fix his morning espresso just the way he liked). Her work days were filled with people; talking to people, listening to people, going out to lunch with people. The constant stream of people was endless. Then it came to night, when she would be walking home from the train - she'd met all sorts of wandering souls during the brief walk it took to get from the station to her quaint cottage. Drifters, drunks, old lady's and their dogs, old men looking for their cats, young kids who thought they were cool. She had seen them all. It wasn't as if she lived in a box, just because she wasn't going on with somebody. Then there was the parties next door that she was swiftly becoming used to. The living murmur that thrived next door from ten-thirty to two a.m was almost a being in itself that she was growing to find comfort in. Life lived next door to her. Vivacious and voracious life, abound in its sinful pleasures and celebrating in it's glittering finery. 

And then there was Mr. Baelish. Or Littlefinger...she didn't know which name suited him best. She hadn't seen him since that one one night, weeks ago when she had returned from that disastrous family dinner party (in her mind) and came out to see him on his dock. This didn't stop her from continually coming out to check for him, each night - just in case.

Maybe she did need someone to talk to...someone like Ros.

Sansa descended the ladder, moved through the corridor and back down the narrow staircase to the main area of the house, following the voices into the living area. A tea service had been laid out on three circular coffee table pushed into the centre of the room with two or three dining room chairs set around it.

Brandon and Jon had made their way up to the house from the garage and were chatting idly about "man stuff" in the corner, while - through a pair of swinging doors - other voices could be heard. She recognized Ros's voice, and another which she didn't, and the unmistakeable shrill of her Aunt Lysa emanating from what supposedly was a kitchen.

Sansa eyed the tea service set in front of her. There were plates of sandwiches, tiny ones, and cakes, and cookies, and Sansa's personal favorite: lemon tarts. It was a family recipe, her mother had it and apparently so did Lysa. Her stomach growled a tiny bit with want at the sumptuous little mounds of lemon filling topped with fresh whipped cream. It would be rude to snatch one up and eat it greedily - the tea party had yet to begin - but she would be lying if she said she hadn't thought about it.

The doors to the kitchen swung open and Lysa came out holding two more trays of food.

 "Ah! Sansa, my dear! There you are!" she cried happily.

Sansa smiled and waved awkwardly. "Lysa, it's good to see you."

 "Auntie Lysa, darling. No need to be so formal." Lysa placed the tray on the table and outstretched her arms towards Sansa. "Come, give us a kiss."

Sansa hesitantly stepped forward and kissed her Aunt on the cheek. Lysa embraced her fully, hugging her tightly. "I'm so happy for you to be in my house! Look! The room is brighter because of you, even as we speak. Please sit!" Lysa smiled warmly for a second before her eyes went strikingly cold once again, as she looked over to her husband. "Jon!"

He turned from Brandon to meet her eyes with an impassive gaze. "Yes?"

 "Get some chairs, won't you, so somebody might sit down," she bit sarcastically and Jon bristled at her tone.

 "As you wish," he said tightly, exiting through a door.

 "Men," Lysa hissed. 

Ros and a young man - looked to be only slightly younger than herself (surely he couldn't be Robert!) - came out of the kitchen holding a punch bowl and ladle. 

 "Ah! Sansa! You've met Ros, haven't you?"

 "Y-yes, I have."

 "She is the last scrap of sanity I have in this place," Lysa sighed and then turned to the young man beside Ros. "And this is one of our young tennants, Marillion."

Ah, the guitar wielding weed-smoker - how could she forget?

 "Nice to meet you," Sansa curtsied slightly, force of habit.

 "The pleasure is all mine," Marillion stepped up and took Sansa's hand, kissing it.

 "Marry here comes from a long line of gypsies, isn't that right?" Ros supplemented.

 "Indeed, both my mother and my father were nomadic gypsies, traveling from town to town dancing and playing music for coin. It's the family trade."

(Ah, so he's also a bit of a charlatan, good to know!)

 "Have your parents retired?" Sansa asked.

 "Sadly, they are no longer with us," he kissed a pendant hanging around his neck, lifted his hand up to the heavens, and then placed it over his heart in a dramatic fashion, all without a hint of sincerity.

 "I am sad to hear..."

 "No matter! Mrs. Lysa takes good care of me."

 "And he in turn looks after my Robert," Lysa smiled warmly. Jon entered carrying two more dining room chairs and situated them in the circle. Lysa met him with a displeased frown.

 "I'm going to go have a smoke, care to join me, Bran?"

 "Jon, we're just about to start tea, must you..."

 "Start without me," he muttered. "I need some air." Lysa huffed and eyed Brandon with a look of daggers.

 "I think I'll stay, Jon," Brandon said carefully. Jon nodded and left without another word. Ros and Marillion carried on as if nothing had happened.

 "One lump or two," Ros asked, holding out a cup for Sansa.

 "Two, please."

 "A sandwich for you? Turkey or Egg salad?" Marillion held out a small plate. Sansa suddenly felt overwhelmed by choices.

 "Turkey...and a lemon tart! - if you don't mind," she said sheepishly. Marillion smiled and looked at her for an uncomfortable amount of time. 

 "You're adorable when you blush," he said, handing the plate over to her.

Oh not again!

 "Thank you."

 "Marry, sit down, this is not a buffet," Lysa ordered.

Brandon made his way to the circle and sat down to the right of Sansa, Ros to her left, and Lysa straight across.

 "Is Robert not joining us?" Sansa asked.

Lysa gave her a downtrodden look. "Unfortunately, no. He over-exerted himself today trying to help me set up for the party. He built up a fever and had a bit of a fit, but he is resting right now and may feel better enough to visit with us later. He's so delicate, my Sweetrobin."

 "Some would say that is a result from being raised by an overbearing parent, particularly the mother," Brandon said none-too-subtly.

Lysa tensed at the accusation. "Is it overbearing to love your child?"

 "No, but it is to love them so much you refuse to let go of them."

Lysa scoffed. "You know nothing about it, Brandon. You don't have any natural children." 

The words were like acid being spat between the two and Sansa wanted to sink right into her cup. Brandon tensed but gratefully held his tongue and the conversation switched once again. To more pleasant topics, like the weather, or a plane crash. Anything other than the deeply sensitive area of anything actually personally related to someone in the room.  
Marillion, with all his sense, pulled out his guitar and began to strum lightly from his chair. Uncle Jon never returned from his reprieve and Sansa was all the more grateful for it. This tea party was awkward enough without Lysa shooting him icy glances every few minutes.

Ros leaned over with a smile. "You look as if you need something stronger," she said teasingly. With a conspiratorial smile she shot up to her feet. "Sansa and I are going to go to the ladie's room!" she announced to the room, hauling Sansa to standing next to her. "We'll be back!" Ros giggled and tugged Sansa behind her and out of the room, leading her to a hall that was connected to a flight of stairs. "Come, the elevator is broken," Ros pushed Sansa up the stairs.

 "Where are we going?" Sansa asked, her feet moving anyways.

 "Upstairs, to my apartment. That tea party was an absolute drag!" Ros laughed freely. 

"But Aunt Lysa..."

 "Won't know we've gone for that long," Ros smiled, tugging more so on Sansa's hand. "I've got a bottle of whiskey under my bed," Ros giggled once again.

Sansa halted in her steps. "What?"

 "Okay, you caught me, I actually have two," Ros lifted her arms up in surrender. "I'm sure with a bit of cola we can polish them both off."

Sansa wanted to protest the potential of being caught with two bottles of bootlegged liquor, but found the words died on her tongue, and then there was no room for protest. 

Sansa had only ever been drunk twice in her young life time and that afternoon was the second. Lying on Ros's plush feather bed, surrounded by a twinkling red canopy that gave a hazy glow to the rest of the place. Ros was smoking by the window and playing soft jazz on a record. Sansa felt stripped, laid bare in the tiny room. This was not exactly how she pictured this day going.  
Ros swayed to the music gently as she stamped her cigarette out in the ash tray and waltzed over to the bed, collapsing beside her in a flurry of silks.Sansa laughed, freely.

 "Aunt Lysa's going to kill us," she snorted, bringing up a hand to cover her face.

 "Lysa will forgive us - your father wanted me to show you a good time," Ros leaned over and nuzzled her neck playfully.

 "My father?" Sansa blinked.

 "Mmmhmmm...Brandy," Ros murmured. "Nice guy...thinks you'll benefit from my experience."

 "Your experience?"

 "I'm very experienced," Ros nodded and laughed, her hand coming down to Sansa's collar. "In lots of things," she continued. "Like the clarinet...and tennis..." As she spoke she began to deftly undo the buttons on Sansa's shirt, until the opening was wide enough to slip her hand underneath and cup Sansa's breast. Sansa breathed. Too drunk too fully register what was going on. "...and other things. I could teach you, if you wanted."

Sansa's swallowed dryly and smacked her lips. Her eyes felt bleary and unfocused in the dim hazy light.

 "Ros..." Sansa murmured. "Are you a whore?"

That made Ros back off, though not insulted, more or less surprised by Sansa's brazen comment. She laughed and poured another glass of whiskey and placed it into Sansa's hand. "Drink up, little bird," Ros said softly and smiled. Sansa laughed and mumbled, tossing the liquid back.

A knock came from the door and Ros looked up. "Stay here," she whispered. "I'll be back in a moment." With that Ros disappeared.

Sansa, for some reason, sat up, blinking at the room around her. Why was she here? Why did she let this alluring woman drag her up here to her room, put a glass in her hand, and get so absolutely spit-faced like this. It was most unlike Sansa. She prided herself on being sensible - but the heat, and the day, and the company had made her lose all sense.

Sansa dropped the glass in her hand to the floor and struggled to get up to her feet. On shaky legs and wavering balance she managed to find a small little bathroom tucked in the corner of the bedroom. It had a sink which was all she needed. In a matter of minutes she was able to down a fountain's worth of water and felt some of her sense come back to her. Enough to make her walk a little straighter and see a little better. Though she was still drunk, she at least now wasn't dehydrated and her body wasn't going to hate her completely later.  
That's when she heard a giggle coming from the room just outside the bedroom. The living area or what have you, Sansa couldn't remember it was all a blur.  
Ros was laughing, but it was being muffled by another sound. What was Ros doing?  
Sansa crept towards the door, feeling the need to be discreet about this. It was a feeling - in the air - whatever was going on outside this room Sansa wasn't supposed to see.

The door was opened, just a crack, allowing her a small field of vision. Ros was pouring yet another glass of whiskey. (How many bottles did she have?) She was speaking, the words were unintelligible, but their meaning was unmistakable - she was seducing. Who? Sansa only had one guess.  
Brandon Stark - her step father - her uncle, suddenly appeared behind the buxom brunette and kissed her hotly on the back of her neck. His hands gripped the fabric at her hips, fisting it in his large hands.

 "I want to see you," he whispered lowly (not low enough).

 "Sansa's in the other room," Ros hushed.

 "I ought to punish you," he hissed lustfully. Sansa felt weird watching her "father" in such a state.

 "Really?" Ros teased, turning in his arms.

 "You've been a naughty one, Ros?"

 "Have I been?" 

 "You've been dialing numbers that you shouldn't be dialing."

Ros laughed. "Oh that! Ha! I could've easily been calling for Madame Lysa," Ros clucked her tongue.

 "But you weren't."

 "But I could've been."

 "My wife was there."

 "Your wife barely notices what happens beyond her cute little nose."

 "She's had it rough."

Ros scoffed. "She lives in a palace with a prince and not a single worry in her pretty head."

 "She's a little broken."

 "Broken is an understatement."

 "Listen Ros!" Brandon hissed. "Don't do it again, please. She doesn't - she doesn't need to know about this, she's happier when she doesn't have to think about things like this."

 "Why don't you leave her?" Ros's smile dropped. "You're clearly miserable with her, why not leave her? Pack a bag, go with me. We can leave all of this. The Eyrie, this house, these people. What's stopping us?"

 "It's not that simple Ros."

 "Why the hell not?!" Ros barked and Brandon gripped her by the jaw, fiercely.

 "Because it is!" He released her, remorseful. "I-I can't just leave, they'd be destitute. Cat would wither away and no one would be there to look after those kids - my brother's kids."

 "So, divorce her but give her enough money to take care of the little brats until they can make a living for themselves."

 "Ros!" Brandon hissed again, then softened. "Look, you're my girl, my ray of sunshine in these bleak times. Come here." He kissed her fully. "I will make this work," he muttered to her.

In an instant all admiration and what kindling of friendship she may have had with the woman melted and turned to a quiet loathing. In an almost sobering anger, Sansa pushed the door open and let it collide against the wall, splitting the two apart.

Brandon smiled. "Sweetheart."

 "Father," Sansa said evenly, her face not betraying what she had seen. She was seemingly drunk, after all.

 "My! What did you do to her, Ros?" Brandon remarked jokingly.

 "Two bottles of whiskey and some smooth jazz."

Brandon chuckled. "You are a bad influence Ros. Come here, sweetheart."

Sansa took shaky steps towards her father, not really knowing what to feel about him at this particular moment. Anger, yes - she had just seen him fornicating (cheating) on her mother; the woman who was supposedly his young lost love, the girl he had fought for, had waited for, and longed for, for so many years. Granted, she was barely the woman she was five years ago, let alone the girl she used to be. For that she felt some sympathy for him. When he loved her she was whole and vibrant, when he got her she was broken and lost. Through his love for her and maybe a sense of duty to his younger brother, he had raised this family from the depths of despair. Maybe Ros was his way of coping with his loss...or compensation for it. But even so, he must know how much it would incense her mother. Ned had made one mistake the entirety of their marriage, the details of which were not fully disclosed to anyone, not even Brandon - the result being her oldest brother Jon. Cat had never completely forgiven him for that one slight and he had gone to great lengths to never repeat it again. Cat had loved Ned so much it was the worst thing he could've done. Now Brandon, though she wasn't quite sure how much her mother actually felt for him, if she caught him cheating on her...Sansa feared her reaction.  
Sansa suddenly thought back to the dinner party weeks ago when Brandon had received a message and Cat had stormed out after him. Suddenly a realization came to light. It was Ros who had called.

 "Sansa, let me take you downstairs, to Aunt Lysa, she'll take care of you," Brandon gently grabbed her arm and began leading her out of the room.  
Sansa's eyes trailed back to Ros and fixed her with a pointed stare. The camaraderie she had built with this woman over the last few hours burnt like a bridge with that one look. Ros could feel it and so could Sansa. Sansa would not be the one to tell Cat though, it wasn't her place, and truly this family needed Brandon if it was going to survive. But Sansa wanted nothing more to do with this woman.

She was led downstairs back into the arms of her Aunt, who cooed and fawned over her. "Oh, my poor girl. What has that hussy done to you?"

Sansa didn't feel much like speaking...or feeling for that matter. So she let Lysa lay her down on the divan in a small alcove in the back of the parlor and give her water and a cold rag. She didn't know how long she lay there, as she dozed in and out of consciousness for awhile. When she came to there was a light haziness in the air, the kind that accompanies the late afternoon - early evening. The effect of the whiskey had dissipated mostly, she only felt slightly light-headed, and a tiny bit drained from the experience. Numb, you could say, though from the whiskey or the recent revelations she could not tell.


	4. Chapter 4

Voices wafted in from further in the room. There was other people in the living room, seated around the coffee tables. Other tenants, she surmised. Sansa sat up on the divan to get a better look at her Aunt's company. She listened and looked for a good long while, watching a myriad of different souls drift in and out of Lysa's house.

There was a wiry man whose looks reminded her a bit of a Schnauzer. He had curly untrimmed whiskers framing a dour and tired looking face. He would come and go aimlessly every once and a while - always doing something. Another man, a Mr. Korbray - a slightly effeminate man in manner, who gestured with his hands fancifully, and wore a deep burgundy smoking jacket with sparkling cuff links - reclined heavily on the couch with a cup of tea in his hand. He was always (if not, nearby) on the arm of one particular woman, a widow, Mrs. Waynwood.   
Waynwood was a willowy woman, with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and all black attire. (Still in mourning over her dead husband). She drank her tea like a lady born and bred and rarely smiled. She sat closely to Korbray, not inappropriately close, but respectively at his side, enjoying a small plate of biscuits. She would occasionally hand him the plate to take a sip of her tea and he would hold it for her until she was ready to receive it once again.  
From where Sansa sat she could hear Lysa and Mrs. Waynwood chittering away, though not one of them seemed to acknowledge her presence in the back corner of the room. Apparently Mr. Korbray was a photographer of some fame in King's Landing.

 "I have two famous collections," he gloated. "One I call Godswood-in-the-breeze. And the other I call Godswood-in-the-snow."

 "Winter and Summer. How clever," Mrs Waynwood simpered. She was a very handsome lady, if a little like a school marm.

 "Yes, they did quite well in the gallery at Flea Bottom."

 "Oh Korbray! You should make a photo study of our dear landlady. Look at her features!"

 "Oh please!" Lysa waved dismissively.

 "I'm serious. High cheekbones and a strong nose. You look practically regal!"

 "You think so?" Lysa laughed, awkwardly (unnervingly).

 "What do you think, Mr. Korbray?"

He seemed to actually consider her for a moment. "With the right lighting...it could be interesting."

 "Enough of this silly talk!" Lysa blushed. "I'm much too old now to become a model. You should've seen me when I was young." Lysa swooped to her feet and grabbed an old photo album off a shelf. Blowing away the dust and cracking it open, thumbing through the pictures till she found one she liked. "There. Look at me."

 "The composition is terrible," Mr. Korbray muttered.

 "Never mind the condition of the photograph! Do you see what I mean? I could've been a model then. I could've been anything. I was pretty and smart back then. Now I'm just...sophisticated."

 "Whose the other girl in the photo?"

 "My sister. Terribly fat wasn't she?"

 "A little on the plump side."

 "Father was always making her exercise to keep fit. He practically banned any sweets from the house because she would gorge herself on them."

Sansa sat up and stumbled to her feet, wanting to see her mother. No one paid her any mind.

 "She has a good facial structure," said Mr. Korbray, adding, "For a child."

 "I like this one," Mrs. Waynwood pointed to another photograph in the album. "Is this little fellow your brother?"

 "No," Lysa warmed suddenly. "That was a childhood friend. The sweetest boy that ever lived. We were practically raised together. He lived next door to us, and we were always playing games, sharing secrets."

 "He is very handsome." 

 "Isn't he? I should've married him," Lysa sighed sadly.

Sansa got close enough to catch a glimpse of the photograph of the little boy Lysa so fondly remembered. No one had noticed her yet. The boy though - he was a sweet looking child of nine or ten, with dark hair and dark eyes, smiling in a black and white photo with a glimmering lake as it's backdrop and the naked shoulder of a young girl at his side just out of frame. (So, he was the one Lysa had mentioned earlier.)

 "Why didn't you?" asked Mrs. Waynwood.

 "My father," Lysa seethed. "Said he wasn't good enough for me. Said I should marry someone strong and upright. Someone who could provide well for me, who knew something about breeding. So I did. And he's not even fit to lick my boots!"

 "Why do you stay with Jon if you loathe him so much?" Korbray sniffed and brushed crumbs from the lapel of his smoking jacket.

 "I'm a mother, I have to think about my Robert, above everything else. If I were to leave Jon I'd be thrown out of house and home. Robert too, knowing Jon's sense of fatherly affection. Even if he didn't cast out my Sweetrobin, he would be neglected - abused! I couldn't let that happen. All I can hope for is that he'll develop the cancer from those blasted smokes he inhales every other hour, and his heart will stop."

Waynwood let out a shocked gasp. Mr. Korbray chuckled. "Better than dear old Brandon. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a woman he loathes," he muttered. Sansa's nostrils flared.

 "He doesn't loathe her," Lysa defended. "My sister is ill...in the heart."

 "Or in the head, I'm told," Mr. Korbray smirked.

Lysa swatted him, her eye catching Sansa's in her peripheral. "Oh my dear," she smiled falsely. "How are you feeling?"

 "Better," Sansa said flatly. 

 "Have you met my niece, Sansa?" Lysa said carefully to her companions.

 "Niece?" Waynwood fluttered. Korbray choked slightly on a sip of his tea, spluttering and coughing, while trying to get a good look at Sansa.

Shortly after that Mr. Korbray and Mrs. Waynwood excused themselves to go for a walk to fetch some ice at the small little convenience down the road. Leaving Sansa alone with her Aunt looking at the photo album with great interest.

 "You look just like her," Lysa said as a compliment. Her words couldn't help be tinged with something darker and more cynical. (Didn't she just say her mother was fat?)

 "Thanks."

 "Would you like a lemon tart?"

 "I'm not hungry."

 "I'm sorry, this afternoon has been so horrible for you," Lysa sighed.

 "It has been an...enlightening experience."

Lysa laughed. "Enlightening, indeed."

 "How long?" Sansa asked.

 "Hmm?" Lysa looked up at her, not understanding the question.

 "How long has Brandon been seeing her?"

Lysa tensed. "Oh. Her. Um...about a month, maybe two. They met shortly after Ros moved in. He was over here doing business with Jon, she brought them lemonade. That's when they met. I don't know when they started...carrying on with each other."

 "And you let it happen?" Sansa's tone was almost accusatory.

Lysa looked at her with pity. "I could've told Cat...and have her crumble into despair once again. I could've confirmed all her fears weeks ago, when she started to suspect...but that is all they are to her, right now; fears. She knows there is a lady that keeps calling for Brandon. She knows he disappears some times for a few nights with no explanation, and she knows he is spending money on something more than investments. What she doesn't need to know, is that she's right."

Sansa nodded, she understood, oddly enough. That was why no one told Cat. But why all the sudden was this information being thrust on to her shoulders. "Did Brandon bring me here for me to...give him my blessing?" Sansa thumbed a page over. Her eyes met with the little boy that Lysa talked so fondly about.

 "I don't think you finding out was his exact intention," Lysa said coldly. "Though foolish none-the-less. That man can't help but cavort out in the open where anyone can see him. It's no wonder Cat suspects. Everyone around her knows and darts their eyes from her when there is a crack in their mask."

Lysa suddenly smiled and laughed. "Here I am, being cynical again. I think I'm going to go check on Robert."  
With that Lysa swiftly left the room. Sansa was alone once again. Her thoughts drifting left to drift back to the photo in front of her. 

There was something about the boys eyes that felt eerily familiar. 

A sound from another room startled her and she jumped, her eyes darting up and scanning the room. (Must've been a cat or something.) Sansa shrugged it off when she heard noises coming from all around her. There was music coming from some room, far off in the distance. A slow, pulsing jazz, the lyrics blurred and no more than wavering sounds. Below her she could hear Jon clanging metal upon metal as he pried a fender from its chassis. Footsteps creaked and groaned across the floor from all directions. A bird fluttered and flapped its wings from the top of the house. And rising above all the din was the beating pulse in a room above; a bed creaking with the weight; a corner pushing against the wall. Sansa refused to give it a name; she knew what was happening all around her but she refused to give any of it a name. To name it would mean to accept it as reality. Sansa wasn't sure she wanted any of this to be real. At this moment, it was a hazy and confusing dream; not quite a nightmare, more like one of those dreams that belies some sort of deeper meaning though it is never quite clear. 

Sansa looked back down at the photo album. The child-Cat's teasing, innocent smile was mocking her - as if to signify Sansa's own loss of innocence. She was now apart of a conspiracy (Brandon's conspiracy). Lysa smiled prettily beside her sister in the photograph (another innocence lost) and below them, there he was. The nameless boy, a pure smile of seamless joy on his face as he sits beside the young Cat on a rock by the river. In his hands Sansa could just make out the glint of a silver pin, shaped like a - like a bird. A peacock? No. A mockingbird!

Something loud banged above her and caused Sansa to jump. Brought hastily back to reality, she looked around to check if anyone was watching her. On an impulse, she pulled the picture from it's slot in the album and tucked it into the hem of her skirt, right underneath the band of her underwear. She gently closed the album and rested it on the table.   
The sound of thunder drew her to the window. It amazed her how the weather could change so swiftly; from balmy and warm to brisk and rain-swept, especially in the summer. Sansa always liked the rain, there was something calming about it, as if it could wash away all the melancholies of the day...especially this day. 

 "Feeling well, Miss Sansa?"

Sansa jumped, startled; her head spinning to find Marillion standing in the doorway. (How long had he been there for? He couldn't have been there long.) "Uh...yes...a little, I think," she tried to smile but her face felt tight all of the sudden.

 "You looked mighty pale, I thought maybe you'd been poisoned."

The word poison did not sit well in her stomach at the moment. “I'm fine."

 "I'm glad," he smiled. He took a step towards her. Sansa recoiled, her hand coming up to the place where she had tucked her aunt's picture, almost protectively. "I'm sorry, do I frighten you?"

 "Sorry," Sansa let out a held breath. "I'm a little out of it...since earlier."

 "I heard," he chuckled.

 "Of course you did," Sansa sighed.

Marillion took another step closer to her; too close. "You are truly a beautiful creature, Sansa," he whispered, rapturously. "Since I met you earlier this afternoon I have not been able to get you out of my mind. Your eyes beg to have songs written about them."

Sansa felt instantly uncomfortable at his words. "Th-thank you?" she said uneasily, shifting from him slightly.

 "I've spent the last few hours trying to write a song for you, several songs actually. A lay for your eyes, a ballad for your hair, a duet to your breasts...don't worry, I won't sing them for you...they weren't very good anyways. There are no words that can do your beauty justice."

Sansa eyed the young man warily. "You barely know me."

 "That should tell you how beautiful you are, one look was all it took," he reached for her hands. Sansa felt like making space between them. His eyes were dark, darker than usual, his shaggy dark hair almost hooding them in the fading light as the sun hid behind a cloud.

 "I can sing to you in other ways," he whispered huskily, a hand ghosting to her hip. What was it with her today? Did the universe just wake up this morning and decide to set its sights on her?  "Oh there's little Sansa Stark, she seems perfectly happy today, let's shake up her life in a mere couple of hours!" (Thanks universe, thank you so much!)

Sansa instantly reviled the young singer's advance.

 "Let me sing to you with my body," he grasped on even harder, trying to trap Sansa against the wall.

 "Uhh," Sansa gaped, stunned by his brazenness. She suddenly slapped his hand at her thigh. "Unhand me!"

 "I could take you places you've never ever been!"

(Like you're bedroom?)

Sansa swatted him again, this time stinging his hand.

 "Ooh, you're feisty," he growled.

 "I don't know what kind of girl you think I am..."

 "I would like to find out," Marillion grinned toothily.

 "But would you kindly let me go, please," Sansa sighed, trying to lengthen her spine and stand tall and rigid, to look authoritative.

 "Are you a virgin?" Marillion asked incredulously.

Sansa went flush and her ears started to grow hot. "What?"

 "Oh my god, you are!" He seemed to be spurring himself on without her help. "Oh please, Sansa, let me be your first. I can teach you so much. I can give you the greatest gift!"

Was he already writing a new song about her maidenhood?

Sansa shook her head and tried to push the virile little singer out of her way.

 "Let me go or I will scream...you'll have to answer to my father - or my Aunt Lysa, your landlady," Sansa tried to threaten. Marillion just laughed.

 "Sansa, your aunt adores me and thinks of me as a sweet little gypsy prince. She would never believe you. I'm her son's favorite person in the world!"

Sansa hardened her gaze at him. "She is still my aunt," she hissed.

 "You hold yourself in higher esteem than she does," he whispered back with an arrogant smile.

Sansa had no more bluffs left to give, and briefly thought about kicking him in a rather sensitive area as he once again tried to grope her against the wall, when a cough echoed through the room and split the two apart. The man, the one that reminded her of a Schnauzer was standing in the door way, staring hard at the young singer. Marillion warily backed off a step.

 "Do you mind?" he hissed at the man.

 "I think the lady asked you to leave," the man said in a gruff voice.

 "What do you know?" Marillion sniffed, arrogantly.

 "I know she certainly doesn't want you the way you think she does," the man chuckled. He was holding a mop and bucket, as if he were some kind of janitor or maintenance man for the building. He stepped forward, into the room cautiously.

 "I think you should mind your own business old man," Marillion huffed, crossing his arms.

 "And I think.." the man pulled out a small switchblade from his utility belt and used it to casually cut a loose thread from the curtain beside Marillion, skillfully letting his hand drop, nicking Marillion's arm in the process. "...you should respect a lady's wishes."

Marillion cried out and grabbed his arm. "You cut me!"

 "Accident," the man shrugged. "Ain't that right, missy?"

Sansa nodded, a coy smile dawning her face. "That's what I saw."

Marillion stood shocked between the pair of them, his self-misconception that he was some kind of Adonnis quickly fading into the reality of his failure. With a look of contempt he weaseled out of the room, still clutching his barely bleeding forearm.

Sansa almost snorted when he had left the room. "Thank you," she turned to her rescuer.

 "The little shit had it coming," the man shrugged. "Got into Lady Lysa's good graces and now thinks he can get away with murder."

He held up his knife that glistened with a small streak of the singer's yellow blood. 

 "God's don't bleed," he muttered with a slight smile peeking through his scruffy face. He stepped up to Sansa, and leant near to her ear. "Someone's looking out for ya, sweetling," he whispered to her, then began to trudge out of the room with his mop and bucket.

 "Wait! Who are you?"

 "I'm just the janitor," his long face curled up in a friendly smile then dropped down into a dour scowl once again, then he disappeared.

Sansa felt down for the photo in her skirt and pulled it out again. The boy smiling back at her was almost reassuring. "Is it you?" she wondered. "Are you the one looking out for me?"

Before she could get her answer the room was disrupted by some yelling coming from beyond the kitchen. She turned her head to the sound. It was Lysa. She was arguing with somebody, perhaps Uncle Jon? Lysa's voice got louder, and Sansa realized she was shouting - heatedly berating someone in the other room.

 "Under my roof!..." Sansa could only catch bits and pieces of what Lysa was saying as she was pacing from one side of the room to the other. "...Sansa in the next room...cavorting with that whore!"

 "Don't call her that!"

She recognized that other voice, all too well.

 "This has gone on long enough! I can not abide by it any longer, Bran! Not when you don't even have the basic decency to restrain yourself in front of your own daughter. What would Ned say?"

 "Ned's not here," Brandon said in a menacing tone.

 "Of course he's not! If he was then he'd be at home...with Catelyn!"

 "Don't say that!" Brandon hissed. "Don't - don't ever say his name in front of me again."

 "This is my house!" Lysa gasped, aghast. "I can say whatever I damn well please. Eddard!"

The next few seconds all seemed to happen in slow motion to Sansa ~ Mrs. Waynwood and Mr. Korbray entered from the other side of the room, carrying ice and talking intimately with each other, stopping when their eyes fell upon Sansa ~ Sansa stood up and looked at them then looked at the door ~ Ros burst into the room, her hair and bright kimono askew. She was flushed and flustered.

 "Brandon?" she gasped, searching for him wildly.

 "Eddard Stark! Eddard Stark!" Lysa shouted repeatedly. 

The resounding hit radiated through the door to the kitchen into the living room, like a visible wave, striking each one in its path; stunning them. A thump. Lysa was down. A blood-curdling shriek emanated, catching everybody's breath with an invisible hand, snatching it from their lungs.  
Brandon pushed the door open and stepped into the living room, cool as ice. He was met with blinking shock to his audience. The door swung open, revealing Lysa to be crumpled in a heap on the floor of the kitchen, blood pouring out of her nose where Brandon had struck her. 

 "Oh my god, Lysa!" cried Mrs. Waynwood. 

 "Brandon!" Ros chastised, rushing past him him to the wailing woman.

 "You brute!" hissed Waynwood as she clutched a towel to Lysa's nose. "You absolute brute! What did she ever do to you!"

Sansa just stood there in bewildered shock. Mr. Korbray sniffed derisively, his fingers twitching with disgust at the scene. Sansa's eyes met Brandon's. His expression was unreadable. Marillion rushed in.

 "What happened?" he cried. "I heard a scream!" He saw the commotion in the kitchen and rushed in. "Mrs. Arryn!" he was at her side in a heartbeat. "Oh my god! Who did this to you?"

Jon entered from the back, wiping his hands on an oily rag. "What's the fuss?" he muttered, disinterested.

Brandon stepped closer to Sansa. "I think it's time I got Sansa home, good evening Jon - Mr. Korbray," Brandon said in a perfectly respectful manner, as if there wasn't a tragic scene being played out behind him.  
Sansa followed him out, wordlessly, too stunned to do anything else. There were no more words left to say to this day. It was if all reason had blown up simply because of one visit to this hell house. 

The drive home was silent, Sansa still trying to process everything she had seen and heard and learned today. Her Aunt Lysa was trapped in a madhouse with mad people trying to madden each other with their little gossips and hidden daggers, like a den of thieves all trying to poison each other in hopes of claiming the treasure all for themselves, except no one knows what the treasure is or if there even is one. Her father, Brandon was cheating on her mother so he could continue being with her mother, so that he could continue pretending to be her father. And to top it all off, she had been intoxicated, almost taken advantage of twice, had made and burned more bridges in a matter of hours than anyone should ever have the right to, and someone was watching her. Sansa looked up at the billboard looming over the hell mouth, it's three eyes staring at her suddenly more watchful than ever. "He Knows."

Sansa turned back around in her seat as they drove on to the Fingers.

When they reached the drive of her little home she immediately hopped out of the car.

 "Sansa!" Brandon called, getting out of the car, leaving it to idle. "About today, please!"

He grasped her arm.

 "Let me explain," he pleaded.

 "No need," Sansa turned calmly to him. "It's okay, I understand."

 "You do?"

Sansa nodded.

 "As far as I'm concerned I saw nothing. I'm just a stupid girl that drank too much. Whatever happened today, is as much as forgotten."

He seemed relieved at that and turned to go back to his car.

 "Brandon," Sansa called. 

 "Yes," he turned back instantly, his eyes betrayed the hurt at the fact that she hadn't called him father. "I think you should get a new telephone for the house."

It took him a second but as realization dawned upon him he nodded.

 "That's all I ask, father," Sansa said evenly.

Brandon agreed, smiling, once more relieved. He got into his car and drove off, speeding slightly as he always does.

When he was far enough into the distance Sansa took in a deep breath. Looking over to the surprisingly quiet mansion beside her. It was late enough in the evening; usually the festivities would be started by now, but her neighbor's house was as silent as a graveyard. (No party tonight, then?) From the top window she saw a figure shrouded in shadow staring down at her. She could feel his gaze once again, her head turned up to look back at him. Whatever it was about his man, it was unnerving yet enchanting all at the same time.

Sansa shook her head, and tore her eyes away, having enough of all the strange events that had occurred to her today. She was going to go inside, have a long bath, and curl into bed and sleep until tomorrow came. She didn't even want to journal, to put this day into words would be to allow it to exist, and she wasn't sure she wanted it to. Better to sleep it off and pretend it was all some weird dream. So, that was what she did. And as she curled under her covers that night, she tried to ignore the feeling of that mysterious man's gaze that had never truly left her since that first night weeks ago. 

In her dreams she saw him again, in a black cloak of crow feathers, standing on his dock; it's green light growing brighter and brighter behind him. 

 "Someone is watching over you, Sansa."

He flew off in a murder of crows.

 "I am watching you."


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa spent the next few weeks casually observing the comings and going of her neighbor's home. There was always a constant movement though never from the man himself. 

On Tuesdays large trucks came in with shipments of fruit and fresh linens, and other crates of stuff. The staff of the house would always be there to receive it, never Mr. Baelish himself. When the crates were all unloaded and brought inside the maids would continue cleaning and maintaining the massive estate. The kitchen staff, seemingly would take care of the products that were delivered. There were pool boys and gardeners every Wednesday to maintain the outside, and wash the veranda. The window cleaners would come in the afternoon to do the large bay windows that overlooked the water. Thursday, around noontime, men in two black cars wearing suits arrived for lunch (business partners or clients?). One in particular she vaguely recognized from one article or another as a man they called "The Spider." A man known for crippling empires made of steel and gold like they were sand castles (through either severe business audits or much darker suggestions). These men came and went in the span of an hour, climbing back into their black automobiles and driving off to whatever business they had to attend to next. Though whether Baelish was an accomplice, a client, or the director of operations himself Sansa could never figure out. She could only guess.  
By Friday streams of lights had been hung up in the expansive blue-green gardens, yards of tables covered with shimmering gold brocade and dazzling black runners lined the veranda. Canvas was laid down on the coral stone, and risers were set up for the massive band that would be there to entertain all of Baelish's guests. People would trickle in little by little Saturday afternoon and spend the day swimming in the pool or the lake, relaxing on the beach, and helping themselves to offerings of mimosa's from the wait staff. Hors'd oeuvres were set out along with sparkling champagne fountains and other assorted gins and cocktails on to the long buffet tables by caterers and waiters. More people would arrive around five o'clock. The swimmers and sunbathers would towel off and change into their evening wear in the upstairs guest rooms. By seven the band would arrive and start setting up for that night's entertainments. By seven-thirty the party was in full swing and more and more bodies pooled into the gold, glittering sea.

This was how it had gone on for two weeks - Sansa casually noting each arrival and departure as she weeded and trimmed her rapidly growing garden. She took comfort in the routine, as if the house beside her was time-locked in some never ending fairytale loop, and the people that gathered there were beckoned by an enchanting green light to come and lose themselves in the night.   
The only thing that saddened her (somewhat) was how much she wished she could see the mysterious Littlefinger once again. He had become little more than a ghost since she last saw him standing on his dock. Every night, it seemed, she was drawn to her tiny little shore, toes in the sand, peering over to the grand dock that stretched like a hand out into the water. She saw the green light, as always, but not her mysterious neighbor to her dismay. It was becoming distressing to herself how much she had taken an interest into a man she had never met, only locked gazes with once. A gaze she could still feel, especially at night in the dark expanse of her little room. Maybe Sansa did need to find some new friends after all.

It was a bright, sunny Saturday; Sansa was enjoying a book and a cup of tea out in her blossoming and fragrant garden. She had trimmed and pruned the weeping willows that overhung her property a few days prior and they had already grown back anew. It was a private Sanctuary of emerald green vines and bright, cheerful blues and magentas in various states of blossoming. Her single rose bush was nothing but little green buds with a single lip of red, as if someone had cut them like one would cut a thumb. The sweet smells and the single family of little blue birds that had taken up residence amongst the ivy created the most relaxing atmosphere for Sansa to sit and read, or work, or do anything really on a day as warm and pleasant as this day.   
Her sanctuary was interrupted though, by a man in a robin's egg blue uniform, carrying a silver tray in his white gloved hand. He parted the willow's dangling branches like a curtain and stepped through, courteously announcing his arrival with a polite "ahem."  
Sansa recognized him as being one of Baelish's staff. She had seen him coming and going at various points; directing the maids and kitchen staff; organizing the shipments; serving champagne mimosas to the wandering guests. He was a younger man, barely thirty, with neatly trimmed golden hair, and a feminine lilt to his walk that did nothing to diminish the authority and respect that was afforded him by his position. She's heard him being called "Olyver" by other members of the staff but did not address him so, though she did welcome him closer with a smile.

 "For you, ma'am," he handed her the tray. On top was a beautiful hand-written invitation addressed to Sansa. She looked up at the butler with confusion. "He humbly begs your pardon for not inviting you sooner," the man answered her unspoken question. "He would be delighted if you came tonight."

Sansa was even more confused. "I thought Mr. Baelish's parties were an open invitation. Does everyone get one of these?" she asked, turning the card over in her hands.

 "Only the very select few, ma'am. Though his doors are open to anyone and everyone, there are very few he personally asks into his home."

Sansa thumbed the note in her hand. The script was swooping dramatic calligraphy written in a delicate hand; the words were formal. It said little more than "You are invited", and "the pleasure would be entirely mine", signed "P. Baelish".  
Sansa realized this was her chance, a chance to confirm all her musings that frankly had been bordering on obsession as of late. Maybe she would finally catch a glimpse of the enigma to finally realize that he is just a man, not a faery or a fawn, or a mystical sorcerer as he some times appeared in her dreams.  
She kindly dismissed the butler and ducked inside her cottage in a furious storm of excitement. She needed to shower, scrub, do her hair, change her clothes - god, nothing she had could match the finery of the other guests gowns, she would stick out like a sore thumb no matter what she wore.

In the end, she settled with her nicest dress, a simple white lace with a baby blue cardigan. She felt like a child going to a grown up's ball, but she wasn't about to drive into King's Landing to buy a new dress just to impress Baelish. This was more her style anyway; simple, honest. If she should meet Baelish tonight she might as well give him the most accurate representation of herself. She curled and pinned her hair up neatly, with a small hairpin of simple silver doves. She only wore the basest make-up that was required. When she was satisfied she made herself a cup of tea for courage. What if he didn't really want to see her...or meet her...what if this invitation was simply out of courtesy? She drank two more cups and straightened her spine. It didn't matter, she would go and whatever happened, happened.

By that time the party was in full swing. The orchestra -not a meager piano and string quartet as you'd imagine - but a whole pit full of trumpets and trombones; viols and oboes; clarinets and saxophones; and drums of every size and shape that you could think of - played loudly over the din of the party. The conductor stood at his podium, tapped his glass wand on the stand and brought in a bouncing jazz melody that had the crowd echoing with pleasure. A woman in gold taffeta, with sprawling hands, and a black turban (she looked like a gypsy or a fortune teller) stepped out from the crowd looking nervous. She grabbed a cocktail out of another guests hands, downed it in a single gulp and then stepped into the middle of the canvas dance floor and started dancing to the delight of her audience. In the distance, beyond the pool another bottle of champagne was opened with a loud "pop", that was met with a chorus of cheers as the billowing gold-white foam shot up into the air over the crowd. 

Sansa weaved through all of the excitement, trying to take it all in and finding her eyes weren't wide enough for the venture. Everywhere around her something was happening. A woman dropping her glass; a man laughing loudly at a joke; a dance; a song. It was explosive how each activity would erupt on the corner of Sansa's vision; it was overwhelming.

She made her way inside, trying to get to higher ground so she could better see what strange world she had fallen into. It was almost suffocating - how many people were there, and all. She managed to perch herself on the steps of a grand staircase that swelled out of the sea of bodies and swept up to a balcony full of table and chairs where the less energetic party-goers could sit and watch the entire affair with a sort of detached dismissiveness afforded by the older upper class. They sat their smoking their cigarettes, sipping on whiskey (not the fanciful cocktails made for young things who can't hold their liquor) and almost seemed to sneer at the crowd of people below them, as if they were somehow above it by actually being above it all.

Sansa was trapped in the middle. Neither fitting in with the stuffy upper class at the top, or the rowdy rich and young and beautiful below. So she stood in the middle of the stairs wishing for sweet death to fall upon her.

 "Well, well, fancy seeing you here."

Sansa spun, her heart leaping into her throat. She'd half expected it to be Baelish. Her disappointment was evident when she was met with the familiar blonde hair and blue eyes of Harold Hardyng.

 "Harry," she exhaled.

 "You sound thrilled," he grinned at her. "What? Did you not miss me?"

Sansa sighed then laughed slightly. "I will say it is nice to see a familiar face, I guess."

 "Oh! You wound me! Is that all I am to you? After your mother practically tried to marry us?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me."

 "I've missed you up at the house...I was really hoping you'd come visit us again...grace us with your presence! It truly is a dull place without you."

 "Well, I'm sorry I was not there to keep you entertained, but I wouldn't have been very good company anyways."

 "I sincerely doubt that," Harry batted his eye lashes teasingly.

 "The situation is complicated," Sansa sighed.

 "With your parents, or with me?"

Sansa reddened slightly. "With my father, if you must know."

 "Brandon? But he's such an amiable chap."

Sansa thought back to Lysa and her broken nose. Not so amiable then, was he? "It's complicated, now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to drink myself silly out of embarrassment and go home." Sansa moved down a step to enter back into the sea of bodies when Harry grasped her hand.

 "Dance with me," he tugged her back to facing him.

 "I'm not a good dancer," Sansa averted his gaze.

 "Look around, Sansa, nobody is watching. Nobody cares how well you dance, they only care if you are dancing."

 "I should really get going..."

 “...the two minute walk it will take for you to leave this place and wind up safe and sound in your little hovel? Just one dance, I promise. No ulterior motives...except maybe to see you have a good time. It's not a marriage proposal."

Sansa eyed him warily for a moment. He had a very earnest face, the kind that didn't outwardly belie any kind of want to deceive or any sort of trickery. A plain face, a tad square in the jaw line, but handsome all the same, and kind - not unlike Ned's face had been (what she had recently discovered Brandon not to be).

With a slight nod she gave him her hand and he carefully led her on to a space on the floor where they could dance along to the bouncing jive tune. Harry twirled her and dipped her slightly, causing her to shriek lightly, then laugh, ending with a small snort that she covered with the palm of her hand. Harry just smiled, continuing to jitterbug with her - at least what he thought was the jitterbug.

Sansa had to admit that dancing with Harry was more fun than sitting at home drinking tea. They danced three more dances before Sansa threw her hands up and shook her head, grabbing a cocktail off of a passing waiter. 

 "No more!" she grunted in between chugging the sparkling liquid down her parched throat. "My feet will remove themselves and retire if I take one more step."

Harry smirked and scooped her up into his arms. "Then let them!" he cried heroically. "I will be your feet for you!"

 "Put me down!" Sansa squealed.

 "Where to, my lady!" he hollered gallantly, causing her to laugh again and grab another cocktail from another waiter's tray.

 "Somewhere with a place to sit!" Sansa commanded goofily, letting the alcohol and her good spirits muddy her reason. No one knew her here, so what was the matter? That's what these parties were for.

The first supper course of the evening (there was another at midnight) had been laid out. After depositing Sansa at a small table up in an alcove in the farthest corner of the balcony area, he swiftly disappeared to grab plates of food for the pair of them to snack on while Sansa rubbed her feet and continued drinking cocktails. The alcove was quiet compared to the rest of the house. A few souls sat inside at various little tables, smoking cigars and drinking Brandy whilst playing cards, or writing in leather bound journals. Mostly older gentlemen, or women with dark eye makeup and pale faces whose facial muscles haven't moved since the dawn of time. 

A table away from her sat a man in a navy blue pinstripe of intricate design, tailor-made fit, hand-stitching, and simple ivory cuff links. His hair was thick, and dark, with the appearance of weaved onyx and two pearl white streaks starting from his temples and curling into the black as if the black were tar, swallowing the top of his head. His face was long and finely boned with delicate features that swelled into the apples of his cheeks; a long straight nose, and small quirked lips that favored the left side of his face, all slightly hidden by a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee that framed his jawline and chin with an heir of sophistication you only ever saw in cigar ads. He was quite handsome...or at least more interesting to look at than Harry. It was all in the subtleties with this one. The most striking part of him though, was a pair of wide almond-shaped eyes of pure sparkling emerald, with a hint of smoke around the iris. 

Sansa realized that she was staring intensely at the man, and he was staring back.

 "Are you from the Riverlands?" he suddenly asked just as red was starting to form in her cheeks at realizing her rudeness.

 "Uh...no," she shook her head, averting his piercing gaze. "I was born and raised in Winterfell."

 "Ah," he nodded. His voice was coarse and oaky, his mouth tweaking to the left as he spoke, extending his long thin lips, and revealing his perfect white teeth.

 "B-but my mother was born in the Riverlands," Sansa added quickly. "How did you know?"

The man smirked slightly, his hand gently spinning a full glass of scotch that lay on the table in front of him untouched. "It's the red," he answered.

 "The red?" Sansa blinked, confused.

 "Your hair," he leaned forward and gently clasped a tress between two fingers. "Only girls born of the Riverlands bear this particular shade. I would know it anywhere." He dropped the lock of hair in his hands.

 "Were you born in the Riverlands?" Sansa asked, almost too eagerly.

 "Me? No. I am a mutt, as it were. But I was raised there."

 "Really? Maybe you know my mother."

He almost seemed to answer then stopped. "I doubt it." His voice...it was familiar but she could not place it at this moment. "Are you enjoying the party?" he asked, changing the subject.

 "It's fine I guess," she shrugged. "I'm not used to this many people."

 "Who ever could be?"

 "People who like people, I guess," Sansa shrugged.

 "Most people who come here don't come here for the people," the man smirked.

 "Then what do they come for?"

He lifted up his glass and gently swished it, making the ice clink against the sides. "To lose themselves."

 "Is that what you've come here for?" Sansa leaned closer to the man, intrigued by what his answer could be.

 "No, I am just a beholder of the human nature."

 "Really?"

 "Mmhm," he nodded. "In fact, do you like flying?"

 "Uh," Sansa had no response to that question.

 "I have a hydroplane, parked just down the shore. Have you ever been up in the air?" Sansa shook her head. "You should let me take you, it's a real experience. You'd enjoy it, sweetling." Another wave of familiarity flushed over her. This man's manner, his way of speaking, even his use of the word "sweetling" seemed eerily familiar to her. Maybe it was the Riverlander in him. 

 "Are you a pilot?"

His eye twinkled slightly as he thought over his words. "No, I just like to pretend I'm a bird, sometimes."

 "What kind?"

 "Hmm?"

  "Of bird?"

 "Oh. A dove on Mondays, a goose on the rare occasion, a duck at dawn, an eagle when I feel particularly wistful."

Sansa laughed.

 "I'm serious."

The man leaned forward towards her. "If I am perfectly honest, I am a mockingbird most days."

He gestured to the silver broach on his lapel. 

 "It's beautiful," Sansa leaned forward as well and gently fingered the small trinket.

 "You think so? It belonged to my mother. It is the only thing I have left of her. She was a mockingbird herself."

 "Then the idea of flight must come easy to you."

Something grey flashed in his emerald eyes, briefly.

 "I-I'm sorry, how rude of me, I mean..." Sansa stuttered, sitting back from him, her fingers leaving the silver pin.

 "It's no matter," he shrugged good-naturedly. "You can make it up to me."

Sansa smirked slightly. "How?"

 "By letting me take you up in my hydroplane."

 "When?"

 "Whatever time suits you best," he shrugged.

Sansa considered his offer momentarily. She had just met the man, knew absolutely nothing about him other than he wished he was a bird and had a mother (one of which did not need much extrapolation to conclude), and had really no reason to trust that his intentions were anything but completely noble. After all, what would such a man of obvious means, wisdom, and class want with a silly young thing like herself, except maybe to recapture some lost youth. He looked to be at least verging on his forties; despite the grey on his temples there was still a semblance of youth in his face, and though he wore a ring on his finger it was a school ring from some distinguished university or other, not a marriage band. Despite all of this though, the look in his eyes - the way he had looked at her through their entire conversation, thus far - made her feel safe. He had wide open eyes that seemed to take in the whole world without judgement. They were soft and slightly hooded, yet thoughtful. Throughout the entire conversation he had given off the impression that he was choosing his words carefully; every breath was measured, and every movement cautious and specific - but his eyes, they couldn't lie to her. Their thoughtful, slightly sad expression belied an honesty - a world weariness, and a glimmer of hopefulness, that made you want to see yourself through them. They looked at you with the fearfulness of a child, the wisdom of a sage, and the heart of some romantic whimsy that had managed to survive a timeworn heartache. He looked at Sansa as if she could save him from himself and his eyes made her want to be the person he hoped and dreamed she was. 

 "Ok then," she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled at her. She noticed it then. His eyes. The smile, though warm and possibly genuine, did not quite reach them.

 "Ok then," he nodded. 

Before Sansa could ask the man's name, Harry returned with two plates in his hand.

 "Oh typical," Harry sighed. "Leave her alone for two minutes and she finds another man to replace me. As if I was nothing."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "You are not nothing...only slightly above."

 "Oh! Check my chest, is my heart bleeding?"

Sansa snorted slightly. "Forgive my friend, he thinks he's charming."

 "I am charming! I can't help it if you refuse to be charmed," he shrugged and set the plate down in front of her. "Are you at least having more fun now?"

Sansa smiled slightly. "Yes, he's been keeping me well entertained in your absence."

The man dipped his head slightly.

 "You should've seen all the work I've had to do just to make her smile," Harry sighed dramatically.

 "Are you two together?" the man asked carefully.

 "Yes, we're engaged," Harry said without blinking an eye.

 "No, we're not!" Sansa cried. "Don't listen to him, he's a dirty liar!"

 "We're runaways, she's having my baby!" Harry continued.

Sansa slapped a hand over his mouth. "I'm not! I-I'm not." The man just sat there and snickered at their antics. "We're really just friends, and even that is debatable," Sansa hissed at Harry.

Harry chuckled connivingly. "She is just so cute when she's flustered."

 "I see," the man smirked. "I'm glad you are enjoying yourself now."

 "It wasn't like I was not enjoying myself earlier, it's just...this is an unusual party for me, I find it a tad...overwhelming."

 "How so?" The man leaned closer.

 "Well, it's just...I was invited, personally, at least I think I was. But I haven't even seen the host yet, let alone meet him. I live just next door, and this morning this man, Baelish, sends over his butler to..."

 "I'm Baelish!" the man said suddenly.

Sansa's eyes widened to saucers. "What!"

 "I'm sorry, I thought you knew, otherwise I would've introduced myself," he laughed incredulously. Sansa felt her ears grow hot. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm not that good of a host," the apples of Baelish's cheeks bulged and curled with a bashful smile.

 "N-no! It's my fault," Sansa stuttered. "I should've realized."

 "A pleasure, Mr. Baelish," Harry stood up to shake his hand.

 "Please, call me Petyr," Baelish's eyes met Sansa's as he said the words, forcing all of his intention her way. 

 "Petyr," Sansa mumbled, allowing the name to rest on her tongue as she continued to watch him and his smooth snake-like movements.

Before he could say anything more, the butler, known as Olyver, arrived in his bright blue coat, briefly leering at Harry then turning to his master. "Lys is on the line, sir."

Petyr's features hardened almost imperceptibly at those words. "What?" he stood up. 

 "Says it is urgent," Olyver said insistently.

Petyr sighed and turned back to Sansa and Harry. "Forgive me, I must take this. The world never rests!" He laughed, and bowed his head. "I hope to see you again before you leave."

He said this mainly to Sansa, leaning over to gently take her hand and kiss the top of it like a gentleman. Sansa felt her cheeks redden at the gesture. He had such an old world romanticism about him, it gave her chills.  
He shook Harry's hand again. “Mr. Hardyng," he muttered then turned and left briskly, his butler following close behind him. "I told them never to call me at this hour..." Petyr muttered to Olyver just before he got out of earshot.

Sansa watched him all the way until she couldn't see him anymore, then still strained to find him. 

 "I get the feeling I'm going to be terribly dull company for you for the rest of the evening," Harry teased.

Sansa finally looked away from where Petyr had departed and met Harry's blue gaze. "Nonsense, I like you just fine," Sansa waved him off and sipped her cocktail.

 "Really?" Harry leant forward. He had a spark of hopefulness in his eyes.

 "If it hadn't been for you I would've left this party ages ago," Sansa nodded. She was a little tipsy and perhaps a tad too honest at the moment. "God, I'm famished!" She just realized there was food in front of her. 

 "Yes! Let's eat, and then we shall dance it off again!" 

 "Oh god!" Sansa groaned. "Can't we just walk it off instead, I could use some fresh air."

 "Whatever you wish, dearest," Harry batted his eyelashes in a cheeky fashion. Sansa fixed him with a contemptuous glare.

 "You're a jerk," Sansa said flatly. Harry laughed at that. Sansa couldn't help but laugh too.

The evening carried on. After their meal Sansa practically dragged Harry outside, past the crowded veranda to the quiet, exorbitant dock resting atop the shimmering moonlit water.

 "What are we doing out here?" Harry chuckled.

 "Just wait for it," she muttered tugging him closer. 

A bright green dot appeared across the water. "What is that?" Harry squinted.

 "It comes from the other side of the lake."

 "What do you suppose it is?"

 "It's a light."

Harry scoffed and made a face. "I realize that, I meant what do you suppose it's shining for. Is it a signal? An alarm?"

 "I don't know, but I know it's source," Sansa grinned smugly.

 "All right, Miss Cheeky," Harry teased. "Spill, if you're going to be so cocky about it."

Sansa laughed at his teasing words. “It's a light at the end of my parents dock," she conceded.

 "Really?" Harry peered at it again. "So it is. I barely noticed the thing."

 "Shows how unobservant you are," Sansa poked him in the shoulder playfully.

 "Fine, I can hardly see past my own nose, but can you blame me?" Sansa met his eyes as his lips curled in a playful grin. "It's a very attractive nose," he finished.

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. "You're a cad," she teased, her gaze returning to the shining green pinprick in the distance.

 "So...what is so important about the green light?" Harry asked after a moment.

 "Nothing, it's just - the first time I saw Baelish, before tonight, was on this dock. It was late, I had just moved in, I was standing right there," she pointed to the small scrap of tethered wood that was her dock. "He was standing where we are now. I couldn't see his face, hence why I didn't recognize him. He was just standing here with his hands in his pockets staring at that green light. Then he did the strangest thing, he took his arms out and lifted them towards it, like this!" Sansa extended her own arms like Petyr had done the first night. "It was like he was reaching out for it, or beckoning it...or yearning..."

 "Strange..." Harry mumbled. "Maybe it's symbolic?"

 "It represents something?"

"Well, green is typically the color of greed or envy. Maybe he uses it as motivation? Like the way I psych myself up before a race by focusing my energies and repeating the words "I'm a winner, I'm a winner, I'm a winner" over and over to myself." Harry mimicked his pre-race ritual rather dramatically that Sansa couldn't help but look at him funny.

 "Seriously?" she scoffed.

 "Even self-confidant egotists and cads like myself need a boost every now and again," Harry shrugged.

Sansa laughed. "You definitely don't need a boost right now."

 "Do you think I'm trying to win something?"

Sansa did not respond to that. She turned back to the green light and scrunched her brow in thought. He said he was raised in the Riverlands and had become slightly quiet when she had asked him if he'd met her mother. He didn't even inquire as to what her mother's name was, yet yearned for the light that shone at the end of her dock. (It can't be coincidence, can it?)

A slight "ahem" brought her back to reality. The source had not been from Harry but from the young butler under Baelish's charge, Olyver.

 "Forgive me for interrupting," he said respectively. "Mr. Baelish would like to have a word with you Mr. Hardyng."

 "With me?" Harry seemed genuinely surprised. He looked over at Sansa in confusion, to which she simply shrugged. "All right...I can't very well refuse the host, can I?"

 "Follow me, if you please," Olyver gestured fancifully with his hands and began walking, expecting Harry to keep up with him. Harry hesitantly shot her one last glance, sniggered, then jogged to catch up to the man far ahead of him.  
Sansa chanced one last look at the light before deciding she needed another cocktail and heading back to the veranda.

The night wore on. Sansa found herself chatting amiably to some of the fellow guests, dancing with a handsome man who spoke with a heavy accent by the name of Obbie, if she heard his female companion right. She found out he was some kind of foreign royalty, prince or noble, with an insatiable appetite for the voracious, voluminous, and voluptuous parties that Baelish put on, as well as some curious sexual proclivities that he and his "partner" regaled her with over fruity champagne. Although she was sure she had been propositioned at least once during the conversation she found she had a marvelous time listening to them, but was left untouched as the two slithered away to a dark corner of the house.

As two a.m. rolled by, the orchestra finished its last song and the conductor bid the remaining crowd a good night. The guests had already started to trickle out slowly, the wait staff had stopped passing out cocktails, and still no sign of Harry.  
Sansa wasn't sure why she was waiting out for him, in truth she should have meandered back to her little haven hours ago, but she wanted to know what Baelish had wanted with Harry.  
Sansa sat feeling thoroughly intoxicated, finishing off whatever was in her glass. She had drank far too much and her eyesight was starting to get a little bleary, and for a half-minute she felt as if she had dozed off momentarily. A hand on her shoulder jolted her awake.

 "Have you been waiting for me?" Harry's teasing tenor hit her ears like a smooth saxophone.

 "Only slightly, kind of...yes."

Harry chuckled and sat next to her taking her hands in his and kissing the knuckles. "Oh, Sansa, do I have a story for you!"

Sansa clenched his hands tighter. "What did Baelish want?"

 "Truly, truly fascinating!"

 "What?"

 "I can't tell you, really, I can't..." he groaned. "Not right now." Sansa wanted to hit him. What was he trying to do to her? Was this another one of his games? "I have to go...I will talk to you later, everything will make sense later, I promise."

His eyes shone with sincerity and Sansa chose to believe him this time. "Ok."

He smiled and kissed her knuckles again. "Tonight was truly special with you, I hope I can see you again...and soon."

Sansa felt her stomach flutter slightly (she blamed it on the alcohol). "Ok."

 "Goodnight Sansa," he stood up and left quickly, turning around to face her, grinning, then sauntering out the door with a spring in his step. What has gotten into him?

Sansa waited a bit longer, watching as more and more people filtered out and clambered into their awaiting vehicles to drive home and crawl into bed and await the aches and pains a night of drinking and dancing was afforded.  
She finally spotted Baelish talking with a fair few of his guests and wishing them a good night. On slightly shaky feet she waltzed over to hopefully catch a word with him herself. Upon spotting her his face lit up ever so slightly...either that or she had drank more than she thought. He excused himself from the other guests and went over to her, smiling with his sad, smoky eyes.

 "Miss Stark," he greeted.

 "Sansa, please."

He nodded. "How are you? I was hoping I would get to see you once more before you turned in."

 "I'm fine, Mr. Baelish."

 "Petyr."

Sansa nodded. "Petyr."

 "Allow me to escort you home," he offered her his arm.

 "Oh you don't have to do that, it's barely two minutes away."

 "So it is of no inconvenience to me," he smiled, still holding out his arm. "I would be delighted to accompany you." Sansa nodded and tucked her hand in the crux of his arm. They slowly began walking outside to the veranda.

 "I should really apologize to you," she said after a quiet moment.

 "Really? Whatever for? Have you broken something?" he teased.

 "No, no. For not recognizing you earlier, it was rude of me, especially since I have actually seen you before."

 "Have you?"

 "When I first moved in, I saw you on your dock."

 "Right," he chuckled. "I remember that."

 "You do?" Sansa's cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

 "It was dark," he said encouragingly, sensing her embarrassment. "I could barely see you and I had the advantage of moonlight, you probably saw little more than an outline." Sansa nodded quietly. "So you have nothing to worry about. You know me now, let us go from there."

 "All right," Sansa nodded.

 "Have a drink with me?" He scooted her around to an abandoned table and sifted through what was left, sneering at it in disgust. A boyish frown crossed his features and Sansa had to smother her mouth not to giggle. "My, my, it seems my guests have pilfered all of the champagne. No matter, I have whiskey in my office."

Sansa flailed. "Not whiskey...I...I had a recent experience with the stuff that has soured me to it."

Petyr nodded. "A glass of wine then?"

Sansa sighed. "I really shouldn't drink anymore," she shook her head. 

 "A small glass, half full, for a nightcap," he offered once more.

 "Are you trying to intoxicate me, Mr. Baelish?" Sansa laughed, still hanging on his arm.

 "No, just...trying to find an excuse to stay in your company longer," he averted her gaze bashfully. Sansa was flattered, really. This man barely knew her, and she even less of him, but since their conversation earlier she had already felt a sort of kinship with her arcane neighbor. He seemed to have felt the same connection. Maybe he saw her as some kind of enigma as well. Sansa snorted to herself about that. The alcohol was starting to affect her and she found herself weighing more and more on to the strong arm that was supporting her.

 "On the other hand..." Petyr chuckled, turning his attention to her. "Perhaps you've had enough for one night. A glass of water might be better." Sansa mumbled something incoherent, before her eyes rolled into the back of her skull and she fully collapsed on to him in a beautiful red-haired heap. He caught her thankfully, smiling to himself as he scooped her up. "Olyver!" he called.

 "Yes sir," the young man appeared. His Robin's egg blue coat was removed and he stood in his white shirt and loosened tie at the door of the veranda. In this relaxed attire he looked nothing more than a young attractive man in his mid-twenties.

 "Help me for a moment," Petyr turned to his butler with the girl in his arms. "I need a light."

 "I see you've found a souvenir," Olyver smiled coyly.

 "Yes, I have and I'm going to put her somewhere safe where she can sleep it off."

Olyver approached and sniffed derisively at Sansa's limp form. "What a sweet thing...can't hold her liquor? I'll never understand what young boys see in girls like this."

 "You don't understand what boys see in girls, there's a difference," Petyr teased.

 "I don't see what you see in her," Olyver met his gaze with a serious one of his own.

 "Have a care, my dear Olyver, she is more valuable to me than all the world. I've been looking for her for ages," Petyr brought a hand gently to brush Sansa's hair from her face. "She is the key to getting everything I have worked for, for twenty long years. Everything."

 "This girl?"

 "Indeed, this girl. Now open the gate for me so that I can place her safely in her box for safe keeping."

Olyver sighed but did what he was told, opening the little iron gate in the ivy covered wall that separated Baelish's garden from Sansa's.

The two quietly carried the lightly snoring girl into her little cottage, Olyver opening various doors for Petyr as he focused his entire attention on not bumping the poor child's head on anything. They found her quaint little bedroom with relative ease and set her atop the bed.

 "Fetch me a scrap of paper and a glass of water if you please."

 "Should we really be rifling through this girls belongings?"

 "We aren't going through her knickers. Any scrap of paper will do, as long as it doesn't look important or of any sentimental value, and a glass of water, she will need it when she wakes up."  
Olyver nodded and left to carry out Petyr's instructions. Petyr, meanwhile, gently removed Sansa's shoes and the pins and doves from her hair. Gently resting them on her nightstand. When he was done he sat on the edge of her bed and stroked her red hair from her face. She looked just like he remembered her.

Olyver coughed and interrupted whatever sweet reverie he had fallen trance to. Petyr looked up and met the boy's petulant stare.  "The requested items sir," he held up the paper and the cup. 

 "Rest the cup on the stand and give me the paper," he ordered softly.

 "What are you going to write, hmm? "You got drunk and passed out, we broke into your home and touched all your things, but don't worry you're still a maiden!"" Olyver dramatically flailed as he spoke.

 "Of course not...I'm writing an invitation."

 "For what? An orgy?"

Petyr frowned at Olyver. "Don't be obscene."

 "Excuse me for not understanding your full intentions with this girl."

 "I assure you, I have nothing but honorable intentions."

 "Really? Then what is the invitation for?"

 "A flight."

With that Olyver was thoroughly stumped. With a huff he exited the room and stomped back to Baelish's mansion in a furious huff. Petyr smirked and finished inscribing his note on the pale paper, leaving it to rest against the water glass on the stand. He looked back down at the beautiful girl, slumbering peacefully beside him. With a cautious gentility he leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight sweetling...goodnight."  
He turned off her lamp and disappeared once again into the faint darkness of the cool night air, taking a moment to stop along the beach to seek out his green light. His arms reached for it with a smile on his face. "Soon," he whispered to himself, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply through his nose as his arms remained outstretched towards his beckoning green light. The green glow almost seemed to grow brighter and brighter the longer he reached for it, until it suddenly died down back to a pinprick and Petyr's eyes opened. His arms dropped and he cleared his throat whilst smoothing out his suit jacket and turning back, walking silently to his dark and empty house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Petyr-Gatsby makes an appearance!


	6. Chapter 6

Flight, such a magical invention of man, Sansa thought. Course, not the creation of flying itself, but the mechanics of it. How many had toiled for years studying the motions of a bird in flight, calculated the precise windspeed, lift, and of course, power required to make a simple human soar with the birds?

The morning after Sansa met Petyr, she was awoken by a pounding headache, a dry throat, and momentary disorientation as to where she was and how she had actually gotten there. She was relieved to find herself in her own room, fully clothed minus a slight tear in one of her stockings which she realized was caused from her sleeping in the garment. Her hair was tangled and knotty, but the pins had been removed and placed on the nightstand beside her. Her dress and cardigan were rumpled and wrinkled; and there was what felt like a pound of sand in her eyes.  
Sansa decided right then and there she would drink nothing but tea from here on out. She didn't even remember coming in last night, all she remembered was being with Baelish...

Sansa felt a shiver of panic. Oh, she hoped she did nothing to embarrass herself...like proposition him, or make any sort of drunken advance...or throw up on his shoes (his incredibly expensive shoes).  
Her eyes darted around the room - she squinted distastefully at the light - when she noticed a note resting on her nightstand addressed to her and leaning against a glass of beautiful sparkling, pure, untainted water! She bypassed the note altogether to greedily gulped down the precious liquid. Immediately the ache in her head seemed to lessen and she began to feel slightly more human. A shower, another pint of water, and a few lemon cakes she'd be right as rain.

An hour later she was drying her hair with a fluffy white towel with one hand and munching on a cake with the other. She had a pot of water boiling on the stove for her obligatory cup of tea for the day, and she was humming slightly to herself as she bounced on to her bed, continuing to run the towel through her long red locks. The mattress didn't quite feel right under her thighs and she shifted hearing a distinct crinkle. She lifted up one of her legs and snuck her hand underneath to grasp what was making that sound and pulled out a slightly crumpled note - the one that had been left on her nightstand!  
She turned it over. The script was dramatic and swooping, and way too familiar. "Dear Miss Stark....I'd be delighted...hydroplane...12:30 today...if you feel up for it...Sincerely, Petyr."

Sansa could barely register what she had just read. (He was serious about that plane?) She felt her stomach hit her shoes. Had he carried her home last night? He must've. He must've been the one to leave her that water as well.

Sansa felt her face grow hot. At least Petyr seemed to be honorable enough of a man not to take advantage of a girl when she is passed out from drunkenness...that didn't necessarily make her feel better though. It still meant that a strange man had carried her into her house, entered her bedroom - her private sanctuary - he could've rifled through her delicates while he was looking for a scrap of paper to write his note on. 

Nevertheless, she hopped to her feet noticing it was just past twelve and the invitation was for 12:30. In a flurry she dressed in a simple cream blouse and flowy pale teal skirt, brushing and pinning her hair as she scurried to find the right pair of shoes, a hat...was a hat too much? She abandoned the hat, she was going up in a plane, she didn't want it to fly away and traumatize a passing duck.

It was barely five minutes past when she arrived at her charming neighbor's dock. He was waiting for her, dressed in a sophisticated beige suit with a burgundy waistcoat and a worn leather bomber jacket. He smiled in greeting from the bow of his plane. "I was almost afraid you would sleep right through," he smirked.

Sansa felt warmth behind her ears as she approached him. "I'm terribly sorry for - if I did or said anything inappropriate during my state...I do apologize, I was not myself. I don't drink often, hardly ever, I should've..."

Petyr stilled her with a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You were out like the dead. Not even an army could wake you." Sansa felt a wave of relief. "In fact, I feel as if I should be the one to apologize. I hope you did not find me rude and presumptuous to enter into your home without your permission. I thought you'd be more comfortable waking up in your own bed then on a couch or in one of my guest rooms."

Sansa felt a blush on her face. "I will admit I was a bit concerned what you might've gone through...my room was a bit of a mess."

Petyr laughed. It was light, almost forced but sincere enough to come off as sweet. "I did not rifle through your drawers, I assure you," he said earnestly and she couldn't help but believe him. "That's what my butler is for." He added at the end with a teasing smile. "Come, she's all ready for you."

He offered her his hand and she accepted it gratefully as he led her to the side of his hydroplane where a small stepladder was set to help her get inside the wood and metal bird. Her hands shook slightly with nerves and her stomach felt a little fluttery, but whether from her impending flight or the touch of her charming pilot she wasn't sure. Petyr offered her a jacket of her own and a protective hat and goggles, helping her to secure the garments on to her person. His hands were nimble, gentle, slightly calloused and stained with little splotches of ink, especially on the thumb and forefinger. As he tightened the belt around her waist his face was suddenly a tad too close to hers and she could smell his breath as he exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration. Oddly enough his breath smelt quite pleasantly of fresh mint, as if he had just drank a mojito on his veranda before coming out here, but there was no tinge of alcohol at the end so she figured he must chew the stuff. She has heard of men, smokers usually or tobacco enthusiasts who have had to give it up for health reasons and had resorted to replacing their craving with a substitute, she was sure she had heard that...somewhere.

Petyr sat back and gave her another one of his soft half-smiles. "There. Do you feel safe?" he asked softly.

Sansa could do little more than nod. The way he spoke to her sometimes, it made her feel like he wasn't speaking to her at all, like she was possessed by some ghost or faerie that only he could see. It was enthralling to try to see herself in his eyes. Sansa always thought herself rather plain aside from her striking red hair. Baelish made her feel otherworldly, perhaps because he, himself, seemed to come from such a different world altogether. Perhaps they were both enigmas trapped on this planet and only through fate had managed to find themselves living next to each other. Fancy that!

The roar of the plane's engines startled her, and her hand clenched the siding so tightly her knuckles turned white. Petyr was in front of her, she could just see his head bobbing as he worked the controls. In an instant the plane began to move and Sansa lurched, the sudden thought of how unnatural it was for man to fly and the fear that she was in a flying metal death trap quickly grabbed at her heart forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut and hum some childish hymn to ease her mind. She got so engrossed into calming herself down she didn't register the drone of the engines and the slightly spray of water hitting her face. 

 "Sansa!" Petyr called. "Sansa, open your eyes."

Sansa peered one eye open, then both eyes with flabbergasted exaggeration. They were gliding across the water at a wicked speed. Sansa nearly laughed incredulously. "It's a boat!"

 "What?"

 "It's not a plane, it's a boat!"

She could almost sense his grin. "What else did you think it was?"

 "Well, a plane for starters."

Petyr laughed. "You did ask if I have ever flown before," she pointed out.

 "Did I?" 

 "You implied very heavily..."

 "Wait...you'll see what I meant," he turned the plane-like boat ever so slightly to catch the wind and a rather large wave licked just ahead of them. "This may be a boat, but you can still fly in it."

His statement struck a chord of panic in Sansa's gut. "What are you doing?"

 "You'll see!"

The boat picked up speed, catching on the lip of another wave and riding it upwards until even the sponsons were touching pure air. For a brief moment the boat was a plane gliding on the wind, propelled by the water, and held by its wings into the atmosphere. Sansa shrieked, momentarily, before the wind caressed her face and the magical wonder of flight suddenly stole the scream from her lungs. They were flying!

For that brief ecstasy of a moment Sansa forgot she was human. That she had legs, or arms, or skin. She only had eyes, and their was nothing but clouds and air for her to see. This is what heaven must feel like, she surmised, before being jutted out of her moment as the plane landed harshly back on the water. They couldn't have flown higher than a few feet maybe less, but Sansa understood now, what it meant to fly.

The ground seemed unnatural under her feet as she disembarked the bizarre contraption, stumbling into the arms of her pilot as he graciously tried to help down the stepladder. He wasn't a big man, she noticed, he was barely taller than her, in fact, she thought, if she stood a little straighter she would surpass him by a few inches. He was also slight, unlike her father had been, with narrow shoulders and a slim waist. Compact yet well-proportioned. He was not bony, he had muscular definition in his arms and chest, and his lithe hips accentuated the line of his body making him appear much longer than he was. He was quite dapper in his well-fitted suits, just to look at, but when she fell into him, her hands groped around his person briefly to find a hidden strength behind his wiry frame. He was no fighter, but he was no weakling either. He was just right.

Sansa quickly removed her hands from him and stepped back to put some space between them. "Are you ok? You seem shaken?" His hand was on her wrist, gently holding her for fear she'd stumble back into the water.

 "I'm ok," Sansa nodded. "Just exhilarated from the...uh...flight, as it were."

 "I thought you'd enjoy it," he smiled softly, his eyes sad and grey as always (she couldn't fathom why).

 "It was..." Sansa couldn't form words to describe the experience. 

Petyr nodded in agreement, seemingly understanding what she was trying to convey. "I know the feeling. The first time I was in one of these I felt transported!" Petyr patted the boats side. "I knew I had to have one."

Sansa looked around at the other boats tied to the harbor. He seemed to have one of every kind. "You have so many."

Petyr smiled, almost bashfully.

 "Five to be exact, some of these belong to friends and colleagues who like to come boating out here for the summer. Come, I'll show you my collection." He took her arm and led her around the dock to his boats. 

There was a two-person paddleboat, he called "Turtle Dove" and a row boat he jokingly called the "Baby Finger". His piece de resistance of the entire collection though was a sailboat called the "Merlin King", a well-sized sloop of rich wood with light green sails; a mockingbird stitched in the design.

 "I always wanted a ship, ever since I was a boy," Petyr sighed proudly at her, patting her hull as if she were an old friend. "Now I want a dozen. Funny how that happens don't you think?"

Sansa could do nothing but mumble and nod. In truth, water terrified her, she always fantasized herself drowning in it. She could swim if she liked, and she loved baths and showers, but to be on a boat such as the Merlin King for any serious amount of time...it made her stomach churn a little.

 "Have you ever been sailing?" Petyr asked, sensing her apprehension. Sansa shook her head. "Would you like to?" Sansa averted his eyes. Petyr chuckled; his hand touched her shoulder. "Come, have a drink with me."

 "I think I have drunk enough to last me a lifetime," Sansa rolled her eyes.

 "I was thinking tea, unless that constitutes as inappropriate in your books," he teased, heading down the dock. Sansa felt her face creep with warmth. 

 "Tea is fine," she muttered.

 "Please, don't look so ashamed," Petyr held out his hand for her again. "You make me feel so guilty for jibbing you."

Sansa met his gaze. "Maybe you should feel guilty."

 "Would you like me to apologize?"

 "Yes," Sansa said after a moment.

Petyr bowed and took her hand in his. "I deeply and profoundly beg your forgiveness, Miss Stark. I didn't mean to offend."

In the back of her mind she knew he was only humoring her, but his voice sounded so sincere, and his actions and manner gave way to an earnest contriteness that almost made her feel...good actually; powerful even!

"You are forgiven...for now," she said with a teasing authority.

He bowed his head even lower. "You are most gracious."

She laughed, snorted, blushed, then laughed again at his words, covering her face with her hand as her giggle fit subsided. When she looked up he was staring at her in bewilderment.

 "You are most fascinating, Miss Stark," he muttered.

 "Sansa, please, Miss Stark is far too formal between us now."

Petyr smiled. "Then I shall insist you call me Petyr, at least in private company." Sansa nodded. 

He led her up to the house for tea.

 "I hope you don't find me rude in asking..."

 "Never, ask away," he waved his hand artlessly as he set about boiling water in a fancy machine made of brass set in the middle of his parlor.

 "I've heard you referred to as Littlefinger..." His shoulders tensed ever so slightly. "May I ask where the name comes from or is it...personal?"

He turned around with a fair smile. "Not at all," he said easily. "The name is not as fascinating as you'd think. I was born here...on the Fingers, back when it was no more than a series of rocks and shores. This particular stretch of land was the smallest formation at the time, and I was born in the smallest house on the smallest cliff of the smallest of the Fingers and I, myself was quite a small child. A friend of mine, upon hearing of my upbringing had laughed himself silly calling me Littlefinger, and the moniker has just stuck, despite its humble origin."  
The whole story was so delightfully vague it was almost endearing. "As you see...it's a very clever nickname," he finished as he poured the tea.

 "I don't think its suits you at all," Sansa shrugged. "Littlefinger sounds slimy and nefarious, I find you perfectly charming."

 "It is a name used mostly by business associates and the odd colleague or chum that I come across. Most who enter my doors refer to me simply as Baelish, and only the privileged few call me by my first name."

 "Then I am honored."

He smiled faintly again. "And you sweetling? Do you have any embarrassing nickname?"

 "Little Dove seems to be a favorite among most of my family, I find it rather patronizing but not quite humiliating or anything of that sort."

 "Hmm, Littlefinger and Little Dove," he grinned, thoughtfully. "It seems we are two peas from the same pod."

Sansa smiled at that. "It does seem that way."

He handed her a cup with a small biscuit tucked on the side. "Are you enjoying living out in the Fingers so far?"

 "I really haven't been here that long, but I do love my little cottage, despite how out of place with the rest of the world it seems to be. It's nice to have a place to call my own." Petyr sat down next to her, cradling his cup but not really drinking from it. Sansa sat forward. "May I ask you another question?"

 "Certainly," Petyr said without hesitation.

 "Why did you invite me here last night, really?" Sansa said carefully, her eyes never leaving his.

 "I was hoping to get the chance to speak alone with you," he said softly, possibly bashful but he was incredibly hard to read with his practiced smiles and perpetually sad eyes.

 "For what? You don't know me, we only really met last night, and though we had a pleasant chat we didn't talk all that long. What else did you want from me?"

Petyr's eyes never left hers. "In time," he muttered. "I promise, it will all become clear."

Sansa searched his face even deeper for some sort of clarity. She got the sense he was not telling her everything but was unsure if she should press the matter until they were better acquainted. He did promise (in time, whatever that meant) that he would explain more, at least that's what she thought he had meant.

She let the matter slide for now, instead turning her focus on to her surroundings.

 "Do you really live alone?"

An unreadable expression crossed his face - she half thought she had offended him.  
“Yes," he said, his sad eyes looking up from his cup.

 "In such a big house? How can you stand it?"

 "I guess I'm just used to it by now," he sighed, his face still unreadable.

 "I could never be used to this much space. I don't understand how my mother puts up with it."

Petyr leaned forward slightly.

 "How does she?" he asked, his interest piqued.

 "Oh, well...I don't know, she used to be so practical, like me." Petyr let a small, warm laugh escape that he quickly covered. His eyes sparked with something - barely a brief flicker - then died again as he slipped back behind his cool, calculated mask of geniality.  
Sansa said nothing about his small guffaw and continued. "Growing up she was always doing things, sewing, knitting, cooking, gardening, she was never the type to just sit and waste the day away. My childhood home wasn't small, not like my cottage, but there was five kids and two adults, five dogs, we had an acreage, my dad trained horses, my brothers did farm work to help, my sister and I helped mother wherever we could. But now, the houses have gotten bigger, there are more and more strangers, none of them more estranged than my own mother." Petyr's eyes dimmed sadly another shade. Whether with sympathy for her plight or just a general disheartening, she couldn't tell.  
“I don't know," Sansa sighed. "She hasn't been the same since..."

 "Yes," he leaned forward eagerly - almost too eager.

 "Nevermind," she shook her head, and drank a thick gulp of her tea. "I just know I could not handle this much empty space. My whole life I have never been in an empty house, not really." 

Out of the corner of her eyes she could see he was gently adjusting the position of the lamp on the side table with the pinky of one finger. The place was immaculate, hardly a speck of dust or dirt that she could see and not a thing out of place. She would normally chalk it up to the meticulous cleaning staff he employed, but watching him subtly adjust small things around him made her wonder.

She was eyeing him in the shadow of her periphery as she took another sip of tea. She noticed the ornate college ring on his finger. "So, you have never been married?"

Petyr coughed slightly and brushed the beard on his chin. "Married? No," his eyes drifted in focus, greying as he spoke. "I have been...unlucky in my affections," he tried to meet her gaze with a weak smile, his efforts did not hide a hidden disappointment. Sansa was struck. Who had broken this man's heart that he should condemn himself to live in an echoing empty house and fill it with strangers just to cover up the gaping void in his heart?

Sansa jumped to her feet without a second thought and walked up to him, holding out her hands. "Come," she said adamantly.

 "Where to?" he asked with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

 "We're going for a walk, I'm going to show you my garden," she said firmly. "You showed me what it is to fly and I will show you my home, properly this time."

Petyr did nothing to argue with her. Why she was compelled to share her home with this man, The Lord knows - perhaps it was this strange aura of sadness that always seemed to follow him - but in this moment it was important for him to be out of this cavernous mansion and in her cozy little cottage.

Petyr had enjoyed the tour of her garden, even so far as to roll up his sleeves and allow her to teach him how to weed. The poor man had never tended a garden in his life, despite his own beautiful gardens; he had always hired someone else to take care of it. Sansa wouldn't dream of having someone else look after her flowers. She pressed the cup of a yellow daffodil against his nose and giggled as he tried to elegantly sniff it's sweet scent.

 "I see you have roses," he pointed to her little bush.

 "Hopefully - these ones are a little late blooming," Sansa lifted the head of one bud delicately with two fingers.  
Delicately Sansa cut the bloom of one of her white roses that grew on the other side of her garden. Petyr watched her every movement with a careful fascination. She returned to him with the rose and smiled at him as she tucked the stem into the button hole near his lapel, admiring how the flower accented his suit. "I like it," she nodded with approval.

 "I am honored," he bowed his head gently.

Without really thinking she took his hand and led him inside her home. "Would you like a lemon cake?" She didn't wait for a response before grabbing the tin from the pantry and placing it on the table. "So," she sat down across from him at her small table, not waiting for him to take a cake before grabbing one for herself. "How old were you when you moved to the Riverlands?"

 "I was no more than eight, my father moved there for a business venture," he said rather vaguely again. 

 "And your mother?"

 "Died a year before in childbirth."

 "I'm sorry," Sansa felt guilty with a half chewed bite of lemon cake in her mouth, unsure if she should keeping eating or swallow and try to look contrite.

 "No matter," he waved it off pleasantly. 

 "Do you have any other siblings?"

 "No, just me." What a sad and lonely life he must lead, she thought. “The Riverlands though were some of my happiest years growing up...and not," his gaze drifted to some sad memory momentarily then came back, smiling falsely.

Sansa chose not to clarify that particular statement...not yet anyway, but she made note of it in her mind. Instead she smiled cheerily and queried on. "Are you sure you don't know my mother?" Before he could answer she launched to her feet and ran into her room in a flurry. "Maybe you went to school with her or knew someone who knew of her," she blabbed on, returning to him with the picture she had stolen from Aunt Lysa clutched protectively to her chest.   
She sat down across from him once again at the table. "Maybe this will help," she placed the photo on the table and slid it towards him. His breath catched slightly as his eyes rested on the photograph's smiling faces.   
"That is my mother," Sansa pointed out. "And that is my aunt, her sister. I do not know who the boy is."

Petyr traced the faces faintly with his index finger as he studied the photograph.

 "It's hard to say...they do look familiar...it was such a long time ago," he said after a moment, his voice soft, gaze averted.

 "It's just that you mentioned the red - my hair, you know, last night and...well, my mother and aunt have the same shade, I just thought..." she pulled the photo back and laughed to herself, feeling her face grow hot from embarrassment. "I don't really know what I thought."

Petyr smiled at her and reached a hand over to her hesitantly before touching her hand. "It was probably a nice thought, whatever it was."

Sansa met his eyes once more. She felt such a strange kinship with this man. As if he knew all the struggles she had dealt with, all her pain, all her anguish. He seemed to understand her to the core whilst saying very little to prove it. Sansa tried to shake the feeling of...what, nerves? Had she developed a sort of crush on the enigma next door? - No, the man. Petyr, with the sad grey eyes and the lingering gazes. Maybe not a crush as you'd think it to be but she was developing an ever growing desire to know more about this man.

Petyr looked down at his watch and he let out an audible sigh. "I have to go."

"Really?" She could kick herself for how desperate she sounded.

He smiled and sniffed the flower on his lapel. "May I keep this?"

Sansa nodded. "It was for you."

He bowed his head once again. "I hope it would not seem too forward of me but...I'd like to see you again...will you come to my party again this weekend?" Sansa nodded. "Excellent, I will see you then," he smiled warmly, the warmth almost reaching his eyes. He took her hand and lightly kissed the top. "Till later, sweetling."

Sansa watched him leave until long after he fell out of sight. The man was so much more interesting than she had first thought. Sad and thoughtful, sweet and teasing, and almost too interested in what she had to say. What she felt was something like a glorified school girl crush on the educated teacher. So much she could learn from him, so much she could teach him as well - it was almost like a fairytale or a sonnet. 

She put away the tin of lemon cakes and sighed dreamily, picking up the picture from the table and clutching it to her chest once again. In her dream like state she made it to her bedroom and flopped down on the covers. The note he had left her that morning sat slightly rumpled on the nightstand where she left it. She picked it up and held it to her nose, hoping to catch a whiff of his scent from the little scrap of paper. She giggled to herself; she was being ridiculous. She was acting as of she was in love - of course she wasn't, not in that way at least, and she knew it. She got this way every time a new idea for a story crossed her mind. She was going to write it too, and it would be about a man, a man with sad grey eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I diverge a little from the novel to establish more of a friendly relationship between Petyr and Sansa before all the shit goes down. There are a few more scenes like this because this relationship is what the crux of the back half of this story is based off of so I thought it deserved a little bit of time in the sun.


	7. Chater 7

The next few days had been the highlight of the summer for Sansa. She did indeed go to Petyr's party that weekend but her insatiable curiosity could not be satisfied by that taste alone. She was hoping to hear word from Harry about his meeting with Petyr, but gave up on it quickly when no word came. The afternoon after that first day she wandered out on to the beach to hopefully catch a glimpse of him on his veranda, maybe manage to look conspicuous enough (as if she was just beach-combing) so that she wouldn't come off as a stalker or weirdo, and he'd come over and they would talk. He wasn't there of course, she was informed by the ever-present Olyver (who was, in fact, beach-combing, complete with on overly wide-brimmed sun hat and glasses). 

"Mister Baelish is in his study, working, and is not to be disturbed," he said as if she were a petulant child. "But perhaps, if you're wandering about tomorrow he will invite you to come sailing with him on his boat. He might be on the dock say...around noon."

She nodded her thanks and wordlessly went back into her cottage to get ready for work, smiling to herself conspiratorially the entire way.

It was a sunny and beautiful day; she wandered on to the beach bearing a picnic basket. Petyr was indeed on his dock, looking dapper in his sailing outfit, loading a meager amount of supplies on to his boat.

 "Good morning," she called from the edge of his dock.

He looked up from the aft of his boat and smiled at her.

 "Well, hello sweetling," he called. "My you look like one of your flowers today."

Sansa ducked her head to hide her blush. She was wearing a simple pale yellow sundress, nothing more extravagant than that, but the way he spoke made her feel like an heiress in gold finery.

 "And you look like a sailor," she teased back, trying to be a little playful.

 "I am a sailor," he smile proudly. "I'm going sailing on the Merlin today. Perfect day for it too. And what do you have there?" he gestured to the basket in her hands.

 "Oh...well, I was going to enjoy a little picnic lunch out on the beach...I mean it's such a nice day...then I saw you here and came over...and here we are..."

That sounded convincing, didn't it?

Petyr looked at her for a long moment before tossing his arm up nonchalantly. "Have you ever been sailing before?"

 "Not to my recent knowledge," Sansa shrugged.

 "Well then it's time we rectify that, hop aboard," he waved her on.

 "Okay," Sansa tried not to seem too eager, like she had hoped he'd say that.

She gently handed him the basket and climbed up the wavering rope ladder on to the deck of the Merlin King. Petyr was waiting for her on the deck, weighing the basket in his hands.

 "How much were you planning to eat?" he asked incredulously.

"It's just some egg salad, herrings on crostini's, turkey and ham sandwiches, pickled onions, some preserve and a tin of lemon cakes," she tried to sound nonchalant about it all.

 "Have you not eaten since the last time I saw you?" he said with one eyebrow slightly quirked.

 "I always pack extra, you know...in case," Sansa shrugged.

 "In case?"

 "You know, birds, ants, the occasional passerby, all good reasons to keep some spare food on hand...doesn't everybody do that?"

Petyr's mouth curled in a half-grin as she spoke. 

The water was gorgeous and calm, a crystalline blue with flecks of sapphire. The sun was hot and the wind was fair. They enjoyed the picnic lunch on the bow of the boat. Petyr had a bottle of alka-seltzer in his stores, as well as some limes and mint leaves (several of which she saw him sneak into his mouth and chew on as he was mixing) and made them non-alcoholic highballs. "It doesn't do to be drunk on a boat," he gave as the reason why he didn't think to bring champagne. They talked, and sunbathed, he even offered to teach her how to steer the boat while they finished their meal.

 "That was perfect," Petyr sighed. "Just the right amount for two people."

Sansa lifted up her drink. "And it was fortunate that you thought to bring a spare glass...you know, in case," she smirked at him teasingly.

 "Olyver?" he asked.

 "I ran into him the other day...he casually mentioned where you would be today."

 "And he might've mentioned your encounter to me," Petyr grinned. Sansa's mouth fell open.

 "You fink," she tossed a napkin at him. "You knew the entire time!"

 "I'm sorry," he chuckled.

 "Ugh, now I feel like such a fool..."

 "It doesn't help that you are a horrible liar," he laughed.

 "Am not!"

 "Oh sweetling, it was precious watching you come up with that packing extras for birds and strangers bit," he chuckled.

 "I knew you were on to me," Sansa buried her face in her hair. "I knew! It was all over your smarmy face!"

She wanted to die, just topple herself over the boat and drown in her embarrassment. She threw her hair over her eyes to hide her blushing. Petyr's hands gently pulled back the curtain of her hair to reveal her red tinged face.

 "I found the whole thing quite charming, sweetling," he smiled and tapped her nose with the edge of his forefinger. She couldn't help but laugh herself. It was a rather silly situation.

From there he changed topics and pulled her to the stern of the boat and taught her how to gage the windspeed to catch it in the sails. She had enjoyed the closeness of the lesson, as well as the giddy fluttery feeling in her stomach when his hand cupped over hers on the wheel, guiding her movements. 

The whole day on that boat with him was pleasant, except for one gnawing thing in the back of her mind. The whole day they had talked and laughed, and spoke of many wonderful and interesting things (though nothing specific or particularly meaningful). Sansa vainly hoped he would forget his facade for a brief moment and let slip something more of his past in the Riverlands, or the reason he never married, or why he fills his house with colorful strangers. Where was his family now? Did he even have a family anymore? Something - anything that would make him more human to her. In her mind he was still a fantastical creature; still wearing that otherworldly cloak that still haunted her dreams. His facade of humanity - his measured words and careful smiles (the odd familiarity of his words and gestures) - did nothing to quell his inner mystery. The enigma of Petyr Baelish.

The afternoon on the boat proving fruitless other than watching Petyr stand at the bow of his boat in his pristine white shorts and navy polo (with a small white bird stitched at the breast - as well as getting rather sunburnt - Sansa returned to shore exhilarated but ever more perplexed about Petyr and her fascination with him.

The next day, a Thursday, she went over to hopefully invite him over for tea only to learn he was out of the house on business. Olyver was decidedly more vague and unhelpful than he previously had been. "Mr. Baelish is out. Come back tomorrow." Sansa couldn't tell if Olyver disliked her or if he was generally annoyed with everybody. She walked back to her cottage, disconcerted and disheartened.

Friday, she worked all day and didn't come home till late. Her exhausted bones dragged themselves through her front door and plopped themselves down on her big comfortable reading chair. It was 5 o'clock when she trudged in and not a moment after she sat down did her eyes slide closed and she was whisked away to a faint dreaming land full of birds and roses, and Petyr. He always seemed to be occupying her dreams lately in some form or another; never the same, but always present. 

When she awoke it was 7:30. The world outside had darkened significantly - the sun was beginning to set. She rubbed her eyes and her stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten since lunch. A quick dinner was in order. Toast, tea, some egg salad - she was munching on lemon cakes in no time. Finishing off the last of her cup and putting the dishes in the sink, she filled her watering can and stepped outside into the cool evening air. There was a slight breeze and it chilled her arms and face as she walked. The honeyed scent of her flowers filled her nostrils and she breathed it in - like accepting a hug from an old friend. 

She pulled a few weeds, trimmed a few dead leaves, and even left a small bit of crust for the family of blue birds to find before a noise drew her attention outside her little sheltered flowery nook.

They were setting up the lights for Petyr's party next door. The yellow lights wrapped around the tall trimmed hedges like Christmas trees, Chinese lanterns strewn from the first balcony all the way down to tall metal poles stuck in the ground right where the veranda meets the garden. Tables were being preset out on the coral stone; the pool's chlorine levels were being tested; poor Olyver stood in the middle like a traffic controller directing everything, but all that was barely a pinprick in Sansa's awareness as her eyes passed by all this bustling activity down to the quiet end of a long dock where a man stood in the haze of an ever-glowing green light. Sansa knew it was Petyr, who else would it be? It was just like when she had first moved in - what felt like an age ago. 

Her feet moved without command to the sandy edges of the beach, her toes nestling in the warmth. As if sensing her presence, Petyr turned around to face her and smiled softly, his eyes looking through her to some sort of apparition behind her, or in her...or beyond her. She waved at him, he waved back. That was as far as their interaction went. He quietly left the dock and sauntered back inside the dazzling maze, past all the people working away on the veranda and to his solemn and solitary study at the top of his castle. The light in that top room stayed alight way into the evening after all the other lights had gone out.  
Sansa wondered if he ever slept, or even needed to sleep. 

That Saturday evening she wore a bright blue dress Margaery had helped her pick up at a small boutique. It had dangling tassels about the hem and shimmered like fish scales against the light. A blue feather on a black band held together her carefully curled hair, and was pinned on by the silver pair of doves. She had painted her nails that afternoon to match and did her make-up carefully, not wanting to appear too ostentatious but wanting to actually fit in a little this time at the party. It was 8:00 before she made her way over there, her stomach jittering in excitement. She was hoping to get to see Petyr once again tonight. Aside from his inherent mystery he was actually quite pleasant to talk to. Most men of his age and stature treated her like their daughter, or some silly young thing with trivial dreams inside her pretty little head. Nobody really wanted to hear what a young twenty-something had to say about life, or money, or politics, and they certainly didn't expect her to know anything about sex or art or culture - but Petyr, he drank in every word, earnestly too. He watched her with careful eyes, he laughed at her wit, and frowned at her woes, and he was just...interested, like she for him, in everything about her, from the trivial to the great and fantastic. Maybe it was her own fascination with the man fueling these notions but it didn't stop her craving to be under his attentions again.

The party was at full tempo. The dancing was lively and the drinks were flowing freely from hand to hand. Sansa found herself with a cocktail in her hand not really understanding how it got there. Another champagne bottle was opened with a loud pop behind her. The crowd cheered, most not knowing at what but it almost felt wrong not to. Sansa made it inside and to the grande staircase, holding on to the railing as if it were the only thing keeping her moored to reality. 

 "Tsk, tsk, how much the young drink these days," a voice said behind her.

Sansa turned around to see the man she only knew as "The Spider" standing behind her. He wore a gold and black tuxedo with his hands folded in front of him elegantly.

 "Are you referring to me?" Sansa asked.

 "Specifically, no," he smiled uneasily. "I was talking of the young generation in general."

Sansa looked out at the sea of people for a moment.

 "I see more than just the young generation with a drink in their hand," she turned to him carefully. Something about him told her to choose her words carefully.

 "You live next door to Mr. Baelish don't you, my dear, in that little shack with the weeds growing all over it."

 "They're vines," Sansa said indignantly.

 "I'm Varys," he held out a hand to her. She noticed three bawdy ruby and sapphire rings glittering on his smooth fingers. She didn't take the hand he offered.

 "You wouldn't happen to know where Pe--I mean Mr. Baelish is," Sansa felt the urge to back away slowly and lose herself in the crowd, if only to put the measure of their bodies between her and this man. Is this why they called him Spider?

 "Yes, he's just up the stairs in the parlor to the left. I'd wait a minute, though, he's on the phone."

Sansa nodded. "I won't interrupt him then," she attempted to move past him on the stairs. The miserable little man blocked her path with careful eyes. 

 "What are you, Miss Stark?" he whispered lowly.

Sansa took a step back, a nervous feeling in her stomach at the man's words. She had not really introduced herself, he seemed to know who she was already.

 "I...I'm a secretary at Tyrell's."

 "No, silly girl. What are you to Baelish," his voice deepened menacingly.

 "We're neighbors..."

"You mean something, I know you do. You are valuable to him." His cold fingers reached under her chin and she jerked away. "You can't be one of his girls."

Sansa had no idea what he meant by that. "I'm sorry, Mr. Varys, I've only chatted with the man a few times, I don't really know anything about him.

He retracted his hand slowly. "No, I suppose you don't."

Sansa's urge to run to the safety of Petyr's presence was stronger than ever the longer she stood there talking to this man. "Excuse me, Mr. Varys," Sansa said politely but as firmly as she could muster. Varys stepped aside and let her pass without hesitation.

This encounter had left her thoroughly wary and incredibly creeped out. What an awful little snake of a man to have to do business with; she felt for Petyr, he probably had to be equally as sly as the Spider to get what he needed from him, whatever that was. From the way Varys spoke about Petyr it didn't seem like they were really friends.

Sansa made her way up to the second floor landing and walked over to the small parlor, her eyes wandering in search for a familiar face. It was sad, she almost missed Harry, he was kind of like a loyal guard dog from all the strange people in this place.

She turned into the parlor and halted. There was Petyr hunched over the phone in a quiet manner. She backed up, it would be rude of her to interrupt, she'd wait outside.

 "When is he out?" he said in a hushed tone. His words made Sansa pause, hiding in the shadows of the archway. "I'll come over then. We need to speak of...things."

Who was he talking to? From what she could hear the voice on the line was distinctly female. The secretary of one of his business associates? One of his girls (whatever that meant, Sansa decided that nothing that little Spider said should be thought on with any sort of seriousness). Or perhaps an old friend, family member...wife.

The thought hit her stomach like a bucket of cold ice. Petyr could have a wife, three kids, two dogs, a cat, and a wily goldfish named Percival hidden somewhere in Casterly Rock, or Harrenhaal. He could have anything; he could be a cat burglar -all his wealth and finery pilfered from his neighbors; he could be the devil in human form tempting all the human race with life's pleasures and an open invitation. 

Sansa shook her head. He wasn't any of that; not a runaway husband, or a nefarious fink; he wasn't a thief and he certainly wasn't the devil, his eyes told her just as much whenever he spoke to her. It all just went to show her how little of the real man she actually knew that he was still wrapped up in so much mystery in her mind that it could run wild with these crazy ideas.

 "I'll bring it over then, goodbye," he muttered then hung up, turning and meeting Sansa. His brow had been furrowed and his jaw a little stiff but but melted away as his eyes met hers. "Sansa," he gave her a half smile and stepped towards her. "How long have you been standing there?" he said more like a man admonishing himself for making her wait than someone nervous about what she might've overheard.

 "Not long, I only just arrived," Sansa offered him her hand which he kissed gratefully.

 "You look ravishing," he sighed.

 "What? This old thing," she grinned jokingly. Petyr smiled at her knowingly.

  "And not a drink in these pretty hands?" he pretended to examine them as if she would be hiding two glasses of champagne under her knuckles. "I must remedy this. Can I pour you something?"

 "What do you have?"

 "Only the best for you, sweetling," he smiled and took her hand firmly in his, leading her out of the parlor, away from the phone, and the whole mysterious caller was instantly forgotten.

Petyr led her down to the full bar tucked in the corner of his grande foyer. He tucked himself behind the counter, greeting the bartender warmly with a pat to the shoulder. Some other patrons oohed and ahh'ed at the host of the party getting behind the bar to mix drinks.  
Sansa was led to the barstool in front of him. All eyes seemed to be on her. Mr. Baelish had never mixed a drink for any of his guests before, what made that pretty little red-haired girl so special?

 "What can I make for you?" he asked.

 "Surprise me," she shrugged.

He didn't hesitate for a moment as he picked up the shaker and filled it with ice. He pulled out three shot glasses and filled them up with three different liquids that Sansa couldn't identify. Each glass was tossed into the shaker, he turned his back to her as he added more secret ingredients into the metal cup and shook. A cocktail glass was polished and handed to him by the barkeep and she saw Petyr folding a small piece of brightly colored paper. A moment later her drink was presented to her. A pale green liquid with a garnish of a cherry and orange peel and the folded piece of paper in the shape of a mockingbird sitting on a toothpick across the top. The surrounding crowd awed admirably at the creative presentation.

 "A mockingbird surprise," Petyr grinned.

Sansa looked up at him quizzically. Did he actually know what he was doing? She shrugged and accepted the drink with a bright smile. She had to at least try it. She picked up the glass and as she brought the first hesitant sip to her mouth she could almost feel the anticipation of everyone watching her with bated breaths to see the result of the hosts mastery at drink mixing. Their expectant gazes were met with a wide-eyed splutter, gag and audible swallow.

 "Ugh, it's terrible," she pushed the glass away.

Petyr laughed, and so did the the rest of their audience as Sansa quickly reached over to the man on the stool next to hers and stole the drink from his hands. Petyr stepped out from behind the bar. "So a bartender I'm not," he shrugged. "But dancing is something I am quite adept at."

He took her hand and led her to the floor. The dance was quick and fun; he twirled her, she laughed; he was, in fact an excellent dancer. The music was loud and the beat reverberated through their bones, the tempo lively and hopping. Being close to Petyr, his arms around her like they were, his breath and heartbeat as musical as the saxophone and drums accompanying them, Sansa realized, perhaps for the first time, that she was in love with him. Not the romantic sort of love, she didn't think, she didn't desire him in any sexual way, he didn't arouse her as you'd think when someone defines something as clear-cut as falling in love. Sansa really didn't know what it was - his soft, faraway smiles; his sad, green-grey eyes; his thoughtful way of speaking; the enigma, the mystery, the man. Whatever it was, while dancing with him on this particular night, the thought struck her...she was in love with it all.

As the song ended Olyver appeared looking unamused as always in his blue jacket and pristine black pants.

 "Sorry for the interruption, sir," he said respectively.

Petyr's face flattened with irritation. "What is it?" he asked.

 "High Garden, they want to speak with you immediately," Olyver said tersely. Sansa could tell a whole conversation between them was happening unsaid as they stared long and hard at each other. 

 "Fine, send the call to my office, I'll take it up there in a moment," Petyr dismissed Olyver with a wave of his hand.

 "But, Madame Ole--"

 "Now," Petyr hissed, his neck tensing ever so slightly. Olyver nodded and left without another word. Petyr relaxed his shoulders and turned back to Sansa, a soft, genial smile on his face, it looked more mournful than anything. "Ah, the wicked never rests," he shrugged and took her hands, placing a long, lingering kiss on the knuckles. "You will enjoy yourself, won't you?"  
Sansa nodded. Petyr smiled and released her hands, his touch lingered as she pulled her hands from his fingers. "I hope to see you later, will you wait around for a bit?" he asked with a hopeful glimmer in his tone.

 "Where else am I going to go?" Sansa gave him a teasing smile of her own. Petyr leaned in, his cheek grazing hers as his breath ghosted by her ear.

 "I have matters to discuss with you," he whispered. His tone made Sansa's stomach flutter. He was so close, his warmth radiating off him through his suit, setting her face and eyes aglow.   
"Will you wait?" he asked again.

In this moment she felt like she had stepped out of reality and into some kind of romantic film where she was Mary Pickford and he was Douglas Fairbanks and all they had was this night - this glorious party - to be together. Sansa nodded, her rapidly beating heart blocking words from leaving her throat. 

Petyr smiled - relieved - and took a hand again, resting it gently on his wide palm. "I will try to make this short," he sighed. "Give me an hour and meet me on the dock. This is...it's very important to me."

 "An hour it is then," Sansa finally found her words.

 "You are a marvel," he said almost whimsically. Sansa felt the press of something cool and metal settle into the hand he was holding. He closed her fingers around the object and kissed her knuckles once more. "A promise," he muttered, and without further explanation turned and ascended up the stairs, never looking back at her.

Sansa felt almost light-headed with butterflies. What could he want with her...they've known each other barely a week; she was so young, and naive, he was so elegant and smart (not the type to be fawning over a young, silly girl). What could be so important? The words of the Spider suddenly rang in her ears. "What are you to Mr. Baelish?"   
It was then she remembered Petyr had given her something, she could still feel the cool metal object sitting in her warm hand...perhaps a clue. She opened her palm - it was his mockingbird pin. Why would he give her this?   
She stared at the little pin for a long time, right in the middle of that bustling and jiving crowd. It could've been an empty room for all she cared, her focus was secured to the little metal bird in her hand.

The next hour felt like an age. Sansa vainly tried to distract herself with the plethora of strangers in every corner of Petyr's house. She danced for a bit with a young man, handsome, a huge flowery boutonnière on his lapel, kind but vaguely disinterested, his gaze drifting more towards little Olyver as he trotted back and forth, managing the chaos. Sansa didn't say anything and the two parted amiably. A dark woman in a blood red dress sat entrancing a table with tales of some kind of evil purge, her companion sitting stone-faced and hard-lined next to her - her companion's wife as next to him drinking in every word as the woman played with a candle artfully before lighting her smoke with it. Sansa quickly lost interest with the woman's stories and found her way out to the veranda. She was suddenly knocked to the ground by a large force. Gasps sounded all around her, a hand was on her shoulder, shaking and sweaty.

"Oh...oh my. I-I'm sorry," the man who had collided into her muttered apologetically. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

His speech was thick and wet, characteristic of someone well into his cups, and his eyes were bleary and red. His hair was tousled and his suit jacket ratty and stained. 

 "Watch where you're going you oaf!" shouted someone from the crowd, everyone seemed to echo the remark with a laugh. The words seemed to quickly dishearten him, and Sansa instantly felt bad for the poor man. 

 "I...I'm sorry," he mumbled again and got up to leave, his face reddening even more. Sansa quickly scrambled to her feet.

 "It's alright, I'm ok!" she latched onto the poor man's arm and gave him a comforting look. "Really. I wasn't looking where I was going either."

The man seemed encouraged by her kindness. Sansa smiled at him warmly. There was something about this small, pudgy little man that reminded her about something Petyr had said once. "Most people who come here, come here to lose themselves." That statement felt no truer than when she was looking into the puffy red eyes of this sad little man.

 "Dontos," he held out his hand, kindly wiping it on the knee of his trousers before presenting it. 

 "Sansa, pleased to meet you."

 "I...I saw you with Mr. Baelish earlier, you look like good friends," he smiled awkwardly.

 "Not really...we haven't known each other for that long, little more than a week. I live next door you see, and..."

 "Oh, my apologies, I shouldn't have presumed..." His face reddened again.

 "It's ok!" Sansa smiled once again, trying not to scare him off. He seemed so skittish and frail for a big man. "I can see why you'd think that...do you know, um, Mr. Baelish?"

 "I've had the pleasure of doing some business for him on occasion."

 "Really?"

He nodded, his chest puffing up almost proudly.

 "Yes, I..." he stopped and looked around, then averted his gaze to the ground. "I helped him with a delivery."

 "Oh."

 "I'm sorry, it is rude to talk of another man's affairs. I shouldn't have said anything."

 "It's alright," Sansa took his arm in hers and led him towards the garden maze. "I won't tell a soul."

Dontos smiled, his eyes looking wet and shiny from over-drinking. "I understand why Littlefi--ah--Baelish likes you so much." The comment made her stomach flutter a little bit. Had Petyr mentioned her to this man? "There have been rumors going around," he continued as if sensing her unspoken question. "Littlefi-- I mean Baelish, has never taken quite an interest in anybody as he seems to do you. They're saying you two are lovers."

"Hardly," Sansa shook her head.

 "Or one of his..." he trailed off.

 "Girls?" Sansa finished for him.

 "You know?" Sansa nodded, playing it that she knew more than she did in the hopes he would tell her more. "Are you?"

 "No," she shook her head. "I'm just his neighbor, I live right over there." She pointed to the garden gate that connected her property to his. "I don't really know what people thinks he sees in me. I think I remind him of someone from his childhood." It was the first time she voiced the theory out loud, and she hadn't really considered it until it was out of her mouth. Dontos did not reply, just fiddled with his chubby fingers in front of him.   
"Do you come to these parties often?" Sansa decided to change the subject. Dontos did not really seem at ease with talking about his employer or...business associate?

 "Oh, all the time, almost every week," he said cheerfully. "It's nice, you know, to be around people who don't know you sometimes. Makes you feel like a new man." His eyes flickered down sadly.  
"Plus Baelish always gets me a cab if I drink too much. He's even offered a stay in one of his guest rooms, but I...I couldn't, it would be too much of an imposition."

Sansa found herself feeling very sorry for the poor fellow. Everything he had said (or moreover had tried not to say) painted the picture in her mind of a lonely man whose life hadn't gone exactly the way he dreamed. A few more minutes of chat and Dontos politely excused himself with a kind smile, he was clearly ready for another drink. It was then that she noticed he had led her directly to where she needed to be, if perhaps unintentionally.

The green light blinked in promise, and Sansa found comfort in it. Petyr would arrive shortly, and maybe...just maybe she will finally glimpse the man under the mystery. The pin glinted against the green. It still puzzled her. He had given it to her for a reason but what that reason was or what it meant completely baffled her.

The night was still, clear, and warm. It was just August, three more weeks of fair summer weather before the days got shorter and fall brought in colder winds. She breathed it in with a soft sigh. What would the world look like after this summer? What would her life with Petyr look like? (If there was any life with Petyr). She squeezed the mockingbird in her hand. She would know soon enough.

A cough dragged her out of her thoughts and she spun towards the sound, her heart leaping in her chest as she expected to see him, standing there - that soft, sad smile on his face. Waiting to tell her all his secrets.

She was, however, disappointed. It's was not Petyr who had alerted her attention but Olyver. He stood crisply in his immaculate suit, his brow furrowed with distaste.

 "Baelish sends his apologies," he says without her prompting. He knew what she was waiting for, who she was expecting. "His business has taken longer than he had anticipated. He wants to know if he can call upon you tomorrow, around noon."

 "Uh, yes, that's fine," Sansa mumbled. She didn't even try to hide her disappointment.

 "Keep the pin, for now, he'll collect it tomorrow," Olyver continued.

 "Oh," Sansa's hand squeezed around the metal bird once again.

Olyver turned to leave.

 "Wait!" 

He paused, turning back to her with an annoyed sigh.

 "Please, Olyver, tell me something."

 "If I can answer, I will," Olyver crossed his hands in front of him waiting for her question.

 "What is this all about?" she asked.

 "I don't understand."

 "I mean, what separates me from all the other lost and lonely people that come to these parties? Why does Petyr...what do I mean to him?"

 "I can't answer that," Olyver said coldly. Sansa sighed, even more disheartened. She had a feeling he wouldn't give her the answer she seeked. "But I will say this." Sansa looked up, hopefully. "Five years I have worked for him he has always been looking and searching for something. Every action he took was for a reason, every friend he made, every business transaction, I knew it was all to lead him closer to something, something very important to him. And since you moved in his focus has shifted entirely, away from his business dealings, his parties, his routines. Whatever he has been searching for these past five years, I think you were it, and now that he's found you...you're the key, to some puzzle that only Baelish has the pieces for."

With that, Olyver turned and walked away, leaving Sansa stunned and speechless on the dock.  
Her eyes turned to the blinking green light shining through the light sheen of fog. What could it all mean? She looked down at her hand, her one clue resting in her chilled fingers.

What did she get herself into?


	8. Chapter 8

Despite her growing confusion over what Olyver had said the night before, and truly, Petyr's own intentions with her today, she still waited eagerly for his arrival. She had awoken early and washed and dressed, wearing a little white dress and powder blue cardigan. She pinned her hair into a neat wavy bob and pinned the doves on the side. When she was done she went outside to tend to her garden, any excuse really to not wait at the door like a puppy for him to appear.  
She didn't have to watch for him though - in the middle of watering her still budding roses she heard a roaring engine come up the drive, announcing its arrival with a series of loud screeching honks. (Petyr sure knew how to make an entrance when he wanted to). She dropped the watering can and went around to meet him. 

He wore a marvelous cream and tan ensemble; white shirt, cream vest, tan slacks, white shoes, a red tie, a dark leather motor jacket, and a pale green scarf. (His color). He leaned against the hood of a bright cream-colored Rolls-Royce. The shine and polish on that long, illustrious vehicle hit the eyes in such a way that the cream and faint yellow paint glinted gold in the sun. She found it extremely ostentatious, more so than its driver. He smiled at her, not getting up from where he casually leaned.

 "Sansa," he said in a warm greeting. "Grab your coat, I'm taking you for lunch today."

Sansa grinned at him. "I thought you were coming over for tea. This really throws a wrench into my plans," she teased. "I could be busy today, you know."

 "Too busy to eat?" he teased back.  

 "Maybe I've already eaten, I didn't know what to expect upon your arrival, Olyver was decidedly vague last night."

 "He tends to be vague more often than not, it's his job."

 "Well, that may be so, but I still don't think I can go with you anywhere unless you ask me properly."

Petyr gave her a skeptical look which made her have to suppress a laugh. He finally pushed himself off the front of his car and bent down on one knee. "My fairest maiden," he started - she snorted. He paused until she calmed down. "Could you find it in your golden gilded heart to let a poor wretch of a man like me escort you to lunch this afternoon."

Sansa felt her face get warm. She loved it when he did this. Despite its contrived falsity, it still gave her a small sense of womanly power she just couldn't help but enjoy.   
"Hmm," she played it up. "Let me see. I have to check my schedule, I'm a very busy woman, princes and heirs are always calling on me for luncheons, you know."

 "How could they not?" Petyr maintained his show of supplication as she pretended to thumb through a fantasy ledger. Filling her mind with a dream life of being constantly courted on by magical and fantastical suitors, and among them all a lowly man wishes to curry her favor, only to be revealed to be the greatest King of the land looking for the most humble of princesses to be his bride. The idea made her blush slightly, which she hoped Petyr didn't notice with his eyes downcast as they were.

 "Well, I'll have to reschedule my date with the Duke to fit you in, but I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement," she grinned, enjoying this game altogether too much.

 "You honor me, my lady," he bowed his head gratefully.

 "I'll just get my purse," Sansa smiled, and turned to walk briskly inside to fetch her coat and bag. She remembered his mockingbird pin and found it sitting on the nightside table right over the picture she had pilfered from Lysa's photo album.   
The face of the smiling boy which grew all the more familiar to her as time wore on, seemed to be mocking her from its frozen state. She suddenly felt compelled to bring it along with her, stuffing it into her handbag along with Petyr's pin without much thought. 

When she rejoined Petyr outside he was already in the driver's seat starting up the engine, his drivers cap pulled down and accentuating the grey at his temples. He smiled at her, looking handsome with his green scarf catching the emerald in his eyes.  
Sansa found herself frozen looking at him, that weird fluttery feeling settling in her chest.

Petyr stood up in the vehicle, leaning up against the dashboard in this wonderous lackadaisical manner that almost seemed a contradiction to his usually so meticulous and calculated persona. Again, reinforcing her belief that he wasn't all together earthly. When he walked, when he talked, he was always so upright, so measured and careful with his words and actions, and even when he spoke he didn't give away much that he didn't want to be seen. But as he elegantly flopped against the mirror-like reflective surface of his windshield and grinned boyishly at her she couldn't help but see this crack in his otherwise pristine armor. A formless grace, a fluid elegance, and an almost lazy art of making himself seem completely approachable. 

What was he pretending to be, or maybe more accurately, pretending he's not.

 "It's pretty, isn't it sweetling?" his voice broke her thoughts, thinking her pause was in admiration of the car. "Haven't you seen it?"

Of course she'd seen it. How could you not? Sansa could hear it coming a mile up the road. During the weekends the golden car became like a mystical gilded omnibus ferrying lost souls to Petyr's safe harbor. It was such a grande piece of machinery that roared in ferocity and demanded admiration wherever it went. It didn't really suit Petyr at all. Petyr was so quiet comparatively, he was not a man strictly demanding attention, in fact he seemed to thrive in the shadows, watching. He was the host of the parties, not the life of them. He dressed finely but not with bawdy golds or twinkling silvers; he wore demure earth tones and dark blues and greens, perfectly suited to fading into the back of the mind. His manner was so calm and asked for nothing but silent recognition. This car, however, demanded genuflection. It was a show, a hollow performance of man-made wealth spent at its best. A golden klaxon, nothing more. 

Sansa climbed into the passenger seat as Petyr elegantly flopped into his own seat, mutedly adjusting things to his liking in such a way that gave off an unsettling sense of restlessness. His face was all calm and controlled as usual, but his foot was tapping on the floor of the vehicle in a nervous rhythm and Sansa swore he swiped his hand briskly on his trousers three times before he pulled the clutch. The car screeched out of her drive at an alarming speed.

Petyr attempted to keep conversation three separate times as they drove out of the fingers to King's Landing.   
His restlessness, his driving, his manner all had Sansa clinging a little fearfully to the dashboard and the door frame, all the while trying to chat idly about anything to keep herself distracted as they haphazardly zoomed and honked past other cars and pedestrians. It was a rather disconcerting ride on all sides.

"What do you think of me, Sansa?" Petyr asked suddenly, catching Sansa off guard. He didn't usually use her name in such casualty.

 "Uh," Sansa's mouth dropped open as she searched for the right words. (How was she supposed to answer that? Truthfully?That she adored him and mistrusted him in one breath. That he was both flesh and blood and fog to her. Corporeal and ethereal, dream and reality, love and danger.)  
Luckily, Petyr didn't wait for her response. 

 "I want to tell you something of myself. I'm aware of all the rather fanciful rumors that color my shadow in and out of the walls of my home, and I don't want them to confuse you." His gaze remained on the road, away from her as he spoke.

 "I really haven't heard many," Sansa stuttered. That, of course, was not true. Every person she had ever spoken to at his parties had a story about him to tell. From Harry and his cynical whimsy, to Dontos and his careful evasions. Every guest had an idea, a nugget of theory or new misshapen piece to add to the strange puzzle that was Petyr Baelish. 

 "I tell you the gods truth," he lifted his hand up as if making a vow. The car lurched slightly, and Sansa's arms tensed like a cat over water. "I am the son of a wealthy businessman - a lower middle class man that had landed himself an heiress as a wife and proceeded to make his own fortune through his own merits. I was born in the Fingers, raised in the Riverlands, but educated overseas in Braavos, following a family tradition."

The last part about Braavos was breezed by so quickly it was like he had sneezed and the words had come out. Something about them didn't seem particularly true, as if he didn't trust himself to say them so he didn't linger on them too long. The word "Braavos" in particular was said as if he had choked on it, or swallowed it, as though it had bothered him to say it aloud. He glanced at her side-ways and she felt his half-made vow fall to pieces in her lap. Maybe he was trying to hide something from her, something more sinister. 

"My father died a few years after my mother's passing, leaving me young and in possession of more wealth than I deserved at the time," he continued. "I travelled all over, a prince in every kingdom. A real prodigal son type. Spending money on anything and everything to suit my fancy. I tasted every wine, I kissed the hand of every girl from Lys to Westeros. All in a sad effort to forget something very sad that happened to me in my youth."

 "In the Riverlands?" Sansa inquired softly, her gut twisting with unease. Nothing he was saying sounded real, it was like being told the plot of a novel or a film in the cinema. She saw  Douglas Fairbanks, not Petyr.

Petyr nodded sadly, his eyes greying under the brim of his hat. "Yes, in the Riverlands."  
He looked away from her and back to the road, sucking in a quick breath before continuing.  
 "Then came the war. It was a great relief to me. I was not a soldier by any means, fighting has...never been in my blood. I found myself in Gulltown, working as a communications officer, willing to take on more duplicitous missions behind enemy lines. You see, I desperately wanted to die, I tried very hard to, but I learned very quickly that I seemed to have some kind of enchanted life, otherwise I was just too good at being a fly on the wall. Small and unassuming. And I learned that I could get things for people, rub two coins together to breed a third, and because of it people began to trust me. I was decorated for my aid because of a single communication that brought the enemy down one by one like a row of dominoes. I was awarded rank and this," he pulled an object out of his breast pocket and handed it to her. It was a medal - a rather authentic looking medal - inscribed with his name. "I never fancied myself much of a liar until they pinned that on my chest."

He also took a photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Sansa as well.

   "That is me at Braavos, see the Iron Bank," he pointed himself out in the group. "That is where I gained my skills as an accountant and businessman after the war."

Sansa looked at his tokens in awe. It was him in the photograph, looking younger (but not much) and serenely serious on the steps of the Iron Bank with a group of similar serious men. She looked at the medal, at his engraved name - she could see it now, his whole tale, every image he presented, conjuring up an even more fantastical version of him. Young and reckless, vibrant, radiating color, and raining riches to make the people cheer and dance while he stood in the middle trying to get lost in the crowd. It all must be true on some level, but why did she still feel he wasn't tell her it all? (Why was he telling this to her in the first place?)

 "I'm going to make a big request of you today," he said softly, his hand coming to rest over hers. "I just thought you should know something about myself beforehand. Know some truth."  
Sansa gave him back his souvenirs with a quiet gratefulness. Her head was swimming, wondering what he could want her to do, still hearing the Spider's threatening and inquiring words.   
"You asked me, that one day, how I could live in such a large house with no one else in it. My answer was rather vague, I know," he smirked slightly to himself. "The truth is, I fill my house with strangers because l'm still trying to forget that sad thing that happened to me. If things had gone my way back then I would not be alone in that house. The house is a dream, I dreamt of filling it with love and happiness. Until I can, I fill it with music and dancing and strangers to keep it occupied."

He talked of his house as if it were its own being - with a soul; its own appetite. A new queesy, unsure feeling set in the middle of her gut. 

 "You'll hear all about it this afternoon," he made a sharp turn on to the dusty road winding through The Eerie. Sansa felt like sinking deep into the seats, wary of Lysa and her house of horrors they would inevitably have to pass by.

 "A-at lunch?" she asked hesitantly.

 "No," he shook his head. "I happen to hear that your little friend, Mr. Hardyng has been entreating you for quite some time to join him for tea."

Sansa cringed a little on the inside. It was true, the only word she has heard from Harry since the party he attended with her was a neatly written and disappointingly formal invitation for tea up at the club. She had not responded feeling the influence of her father and mother behind his motivations. She had hoped he would've made an appearance at the party last night so she could talk with him about it face to face.

 "What about Harry?" she responded rather cooly.

 "He'll be meeting us at the Lion's Head. That is where I am taking you."

Sansa felt herself bristle with irritation. She had no desire to be "set up" with Harry, by anyone. This must be a cruel joke on Harry's part, a ploy to tease her, or make her parents feel like she was being sufficiently courted. Sansa was almost angry at Petyr for lending a hand in this. She had expected better from him.

 "Did Harry put you up to this?" she asked harshly.

 "No, not at all, sweetling," Petyr immediately said, his voice calming. "It was in fact I who made the arrangement. I have employed the young falcon to discuss this matter with you."

Sansa felt that sense of unease again. (What matter was it that he couldn't discuss it himself?) Her hands were starting to quiver and she felt a bit light-headed. This was not the same man that she had spent the afternoon with on the bow of his boat. He was unveiling one enigma only to wrap himself in the blanket of another, and she wasn't sure she liked this new mystery. (What was he hiding from her?) This was not what she was expecting when he invited her for lunch today. Whatever he was going to ask of her it must be big, otherwise why would he go through all the trouble. For a half-breath she almost regretted ever stepping foot on that beach that warm summer night that eternity ago.

 "My pin, do you still have it?" he leaned closer to Sansa. Sansa nodded, wordlessly. "Good," he smiled slightly. "It will help you."

Help her with what? Was she going to be needing help soon? Did he need help? His vagueness was both charming and insulting.   
His mask came back over him and his restlessness momentarily ceased as he settled into a strange sort of calm for the rest of the drive. 

As they passed through the Eerie onto the main stretch of roadway that would cross over the river on the bridge and lead straight into the heart of King's Landing, Sansa heard another vehicle coming up behind them, a harsh jarring chug of a motorcycle and the high pitched squeal of a siren. A cop. Sansa felt her face grow hot and the urge to sink into the green leather even more.  
Petyr slowed and stopped, as serene as ever, as if it was routine. He instantly reached into his coat pocket and produced some card as if preparing to do business. The officer came up to his side of the vehicle and he handed him the card with his usual charming smile and not a single word said.

The officer glanced at the card, then at Petyr, then back at the card before handing it back to Petyr. "Sorry Mr. Baelish, I'll know you for next time," the man said curtly, turned and went back to his motorcycle, driving off in a plume of dust. Sansa watched the entire chain of events dumbfounded.

Petyr looked over at her as he shifted the car back into gear. She must've looked incredibly uneasy at this point because his gaze softened under her hardening stare.

 "I did the commissioner a favor once," he explained, vaguely. "Because of it he grants me small services as long as I don't push the limits."

 "Must've been some favor," Sansa said warily.

"It was," he gently touched her arm and Sansa tried not to flinch. "It was all perfectly legal, nothing underhanded... so you don't have to act like your trapped in a car with a criminal."

Sansa relaxed only slightly. Her head was drowning at this point. So many questions he was leaving her unanswered, so many fractured realities she didn't know which one to believe in anymore.  
Petyr sped on to the highway once again and they crossed the grand bridge over the sparkling waters into the glittering gold and crimson heart of King's Landing.

As they approached the well established Lion's Head club in the heart of the glittering metropolis Sansa felt unease give way to a small sense of awe. The club was grand with sweeping gothic architecture; stone work that reminded her of more romantic times, when wars were fought and won over love and country, duty and honor - not wealth, or at least, that's how she liked to picture it. The interior was lined with beautiful gold crowning and rich cherry oak; deep greens and the warm, overwhelming scent of cigars and old whiskey. It had previously been a gentleman's club, but in the last decade has changed its tune to allow women of high class and a certain visual appeal to enter its sacred walls. A restaurant had attached itself to the age old smoking rooms and banquet halls. Men could enjoy a game of tennis then have a brandy or a highball by the bar - now so could their wives.

Petyr handed the car over to the valet, effortlessly tossing him the keys and then opening the car door for Sansa, offering his hand. She took it out of courtesy. He looked as if he sensed her growing apprehension, but smiled at the passersby anyway as he led her into the club, hoping to distract her with its finery.

 "I'm just...going to find the powder room," Sansa said after they had handed their coats to the coat check girl.

 "Alright, I'll meet you in the restaurant," Petyr smiled warmly - sadly, (desperately).

Sansa nodded.

 "It's just up the stairs to the left," he added, noting how her eyes darted around looking for a sign, or a clue to lead her to her much desired location.  She didn't have to go, she just needed an excuse to get away to collect herself before she lost her mind. Whoever this Petyr was, she needed to figure out if she was going to let him lead her any more down this rabbit hole.

The ladies room - used to be a closet,  was recently retrofitted into a powder room once the owners of the Lions Head Gentlemen's club decided to become a Gentlemen's club that let ladies of class in.  It was all about class these days.

Sansa washed her face in the sink and looked at herself in the large, brightly lit mirror. She needed to calm down; Petyr wouldn't hurt her, that she was certain of - there were certain aspects of personality that could not be masked, she looked into his eyes and saw genuine tenderness there. She had to believe in that.

Sansa squared off her shoulders and adjusted a stray hair before leaving the bathroom and heading back down the stairs to the entrance of the restaurant. 

It was crowded, young men and their girls, old men and their sons, the occasional scowling wife of some wealthy businessman sniffing derisively and sipping black tea. Music filled the cracks of voices and plates clinking against cutlery; bouncing, electric, surreal jazz, vibrating through bones and rhythmically surging through blood. Sansa almost wanted to faint until she saw Petyr, standing in the middle of the room, his eyes caught her amidst the sea of people and his face lit up the way it did when he looked at her. The warmth in his smile melted some of the iciness she had felt ever since she left his car. He waved her over to his table.

Another man was across from him, sitting in a deep recline, a whiskey on the rocks in a tumbler resting by his hand. This man had an air of power, control, and almost a hostile dignity about him.

 "Sansa," Petyr's hand caught her and gently tugged her to his side. "This is Tywin Lannister, a business associate of mine, you don't mind if he joins us, do you?"

She did mind, she'd hoped he'd explain more about his past. His education at Braavos, his work in the war, the sad thing that he refuses to dwell on for any length of time. He wasn't going to be saying much with this man there.

Tywin gave her a hand.

 "Charmed, I'm sure," he said stiffly, and humorlessly. A businessman to the core.

 "Miss Stark is my neighbor," Petyr interjected with before Tywin could make any assumptions of Sansa's connection to Petyr.

 "Stark you say," Tywin's gaze suddenly turned interested. "I knew a Stark once. Tragic that."

 "You knew Eddard Stark?" Sansa blurted out.

 "The very one," he was almost shocked.

 "He was my father."

 "Was he?" Tywin's gaze turned uninterested again. 

Petyr pulled out Sansa's chair for her and sat next to her, ordering her a highball and water, and another two whiskeys for himself and Mr. Lannister.

After their introduction Tywin lost interest in Sansa altogether and started engaging Petyr into a discussion of business, economic figures, and the state of affairs in Flea Bottom. Sansa drank her mojito, and pretended she could turn into a liquid like the one she was drinking and melt on to the floor under her chair, slithering her entire being out of this room. When she returned from her amoebic fantasy Tywin finished speaking and Petyr replied:  
"It's too hot over there," as if they were planning a vacation to the Bahamas.

 "Hot and small, yes," Tywin said oddly, like his throat went suddenly tight. "But full of memories."

Sansa saw it, in his eyes, the greying distant sadness of a tragedy long past. Something akin to the grayness in Petyr's eyes every time he smiles.

 "What place is this?" Sansa heard herself asking.

 "The old Harrenhaal," Petyr supplied.

 "The old Harrenhaal," Tywin brooded. "A lot of ghosts reside there now. Ghosts of faces, of friends and loved ones long gone. I'll never forget for as long as I live the night they shot Mad Aerys Targaryen there. There were six of us at the table, I by Aerys' left hand side. He'd been sitting there, muttering to himself all evening. Nobody paid him much mind...there was a reason we called him "mad". Suddenly, the waiter comes up to him with a peculiar look on his face. Says there's a man outside who would like a word. 'Alright' says Aerys. And he got up. But I grabbed his arm and told him firmly, 'Rys', I said, 'if that bastard wants to come in here and bark your ear off that is fine by me, but don't you dare move out of this room'. It was almost four o'clock, if we had turned up the blinds we'd have seen daylight."

 "W-well, did he go?" Sansa asked tentatively.

 "Of course he did," Tywin fixed her with an annoyed glare. "Marched right out of there, stopped in the doorway and turned back to us and said 'burn them all' just as he breezed by. Those were his last words. Soon as his foot touched the outer steps he was shot three times in the stomach by a mysterious man walking past."

 "I remember reading about this, they never did find the shooter," Sansa added excitedly.

Tywin gave her a curious look.

 "No, they didn't," he shifted his focus completely to her. "I heard you are looking for some business connections."

Petyr suddenly jerked into awareness. "No, no!" he laughed, almost nervously, sitting up straighter, putting a hand protectively on Sansa's arm. "This is not about that. Sansa is just a neighbor and friend. I told you we'd speak about that later."

Tywin nodded in understanding and sat back in his chair, disinterest settling in once again. "Sorry," he muttered sardonically. "I had the wrong 'friend'.

Sansa felt that unease settle back in her stomach. Petyr was talking in code again, and she didn't like it. Luckily, before the situation could become truly awkward the food arrived smelling wonderful and much more distracting than Petyr's nervous vibrating.  
Tywin took to his steak like a starved animal, quickly diving in and expertly sawing into the red, rare meat. Petyr glanced over at Sansa with an apologetic look in his eyes, it was almost comforting, if a little guilty looking.

After the meal, Tywin briefly left to grab another round of drinks at the bar. With the brief respite, Petyr quickly grabbed her attention by gently placing his hand over hers.  
"Hey," he muttered lowly. "Sansa, sweetling," he coaxed her to meet his gaze. "I'm afraid I may have upset you this morning in the car."

He smiled at her again, God what she would do for that smile. It took all her will to not melt at the sight of it.

 "I don't like mysteries," Sansa said honestly, or at least, honest enough. "I am confused though. I mean, why all these games? Why don't you just come out and say whatever is on your mind? Why do I have to hear it from Harry?"

 "It's nothing underhanded, I swear."

 "That's not what I mean."

 "Harry is a good fellow. Honest, he would never agree to any form of trickery, not on you anyways."

 "But why can't you tell me. I much rather hear it from you."

 "You'll understand once..." Petyr trailed off, suddenly glancing down at his watch. Tywin returned to the table placing the drinks in the middle. Petyr shot up and darted out of the room as if he just realized he'd left the gas on.

 "Telephone," Tywin supplied as an answer. "All work and no play." He looked down at Sansa oddly. "Maybe some play." Sansa felt the urge to shrink into her chair. "He's a good fellow though," Tywin continued. "Good at what he does. Not bad to look at. Some times I wish my own son had turned out like him."

 "Oh, you have a son?"

 "I have two. Sort of."

 "Oh."

 "Petyr's an educated man. Did you know he was educated at Braavos."

 "Oh?"

 "Yes, at the Iron Bank. Quite a magician with numbers."

 "Have you known Petyr long?"

 "Several years. I met him at his first posting after the war, in Gull Town. A small accountant in a meager firm that I was buying the shares to. Not a minute after our introduction I knew - I said to myself: 'here is a man of breeding and character. This is a man I want on my side'."

Sansa's eyes flitted downwards, quietly praying for Petyr's swift return.  
"I see you're admiring my cufflinks," Tywin continued, thinking that was what had drawn her eye. But now that he had mentioned it...  
Sansa saw that they were two gold-edged lions set in a fierce roar. They looked like they were made out of some sort of pale ivory, perhaps pearl. 

 "What kind of material is that?" Sansa asked.

 "Only the best enamel money can buy," he grinned proudly. 

 "Glass?"

 "Human," he tapped his pearly white teeth for emphasis.

Sansa lurched back a little. The thought was more than a little disturbing in her mind. (What kind of man makes cufflinks out of another man's teeth?)

 "Oh," she managed to mutter. "How creative."

Sansa reached over and grabbed Petyr's untouched whiskey sitting next to the fresh one Tywin had just brought. Without thinking Sansa chugged the entire drink down, it burned but it was better than trying to make conversation with this man.

 "Baelish is very careful about women," Tywin leaned forward, his gaze was hard and inquisitive. "He would never so much as look at another man's wife. He is a perfect gentleman, don't you think?"

Sansa felt like he was gaging her reaction. "He is," Sansa said tersely, trying her best to keep her face as neutral as possible.

 "Then what are you, Miss Stark?"

Sansa froze.

The subject of conversation returned and sat down, his arm coming to rest behind Sansa; she could feel it's warmth radiating against her back. Tywin threw the remains of his drink into the back of his throat, swallowed with a frightening ease, then stood.

 "Thank you for lunch, Baelish," He said almost warmly. "I quite enjoyed that."

 "There's no rush," Petyr said lazily, more out of courtesy than out of an actual desire to keep the man in his company.

 "No, I won't impose on you further, I'll let you finish you're afternoon with the lovely lady without having to entertain an old sod like me," he said politely, though Sansa still felt an edge of threat to him. "It was a pleasure, as always. Till we meet again, Baelish. Miss Stark."

As he began to leave he fixed Sansa with one last scrutinous glare before turning and walking straight out of the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna say, out of all the cameo character appearances in this fic Tywin is my favorite. He fits quite well into the weirdness that is Meyer Wolfsheim. His interaction with Sansa is awkward and slightly menacing and it amuses me. 
> 
> Now we're getting into the real meat of the Gatsby plot. Ooh!


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa let out a breath she had no idea she was holding. "Who was that man?" she turned to Petyr.

 "I did introduce you," Petyr joked.

 "I mean what does he do? Is he a businessman? Lawyer? Dentist?"

Petyr laughed. "Dentist?"

 "How did he know my father?"

 "He knows a lot of people, sweetling."

 "Is he some sort of gangster?"

Petyr opened his mouth but hesitated. "He's a gambler."

 "A what?"

 "Not in the way that you'd think. He doesn't raid casinos or bet on horses, his type of gambling is...bigger - on a grander scale." Petyr leaned towards her conspiratorially. "He is the man that fixed the World Tournament."

 "He what? How? I didn't think that was something you could fix."

 "Apparently he can."

 "Why?"

 "To prove that he could."

She'd, of course, heard of the famous Tournament that had been allegedly rigged some years ago. It was all Brandon could talk about for a time. The avid sports fan that he was he couldn't fathom a great tradition in sportsmanship could be hijacked so easily. Sansa always thought it was all due to some sort of cosmic inevitability, she never thought the entire affair could be whittled down to one man winning a bet.

 "How is he not in jail?"

 "They can't catch him, he's a very smart man," Petyr smirked slightly. "There's something to be said about a man's power and influence." Sansa felt her stomach tighten with that same unease again.

At that moment the waiter brought over the tab and placed it on the edge of their table. Petyr leaned forward to settle it but Sansa reached over and took it before he could.

 "I'll get it," she blurted out quickly.

 "You don't have to sweetling, it was I who invited you to lunch."

Sansa insisted, pulling out her wallet and paying the appropriate amount. She knew etiquette demanded he pay, but in this moment Sansa had the distinct feeling she didn't want to sell her soul to the devil over a steak.

Petyr - gratefully- conceded to letting her settle the bill.

 "You didn't have to do that," he said as the waiter walked away with her money.

 "I did," Sansa said firmly.

 "Well then I insist you let me return the favor one day."

He smiled and she felt like melting again. That smile broke her heart then sewed her back together again in the space of a breath. His lips spoke of genuine affection; his eyes spoke of a deep well of sorrow that not even a moment of pure joy could puncture. It must be that very sad thing, if only he'd tell her. 

 "We should go, Harry is waiting," Petyr stood up stiffly, offering her his hand. "He is in the tea garden, I told him to meet you there...after you've heard what he has to say...I'll be waiting for you...my door will be open."

 "You are a confusing man, Petyr Baelish," Sansa sighed.

 "I know," he half-laughed. "Whatever you decide, know that I...appreciate your kindness."

He offered her his hand once more and this time she gave it to him. They started to make their way through the incredibly crowded room.

 "Sansa!" Sansa's head whipped around at the sound of her name. "Sansa!" through the plethora of suits and smoking jackets a familiar hand shot up and waved. (What was he doing here?)

 "Petyr," Sansa turned to him. "Wait, for just a second, there is someone I need to talk to."  
Petyr nodded, looking slightly tense all of the sudden.

Brandon, her "beloved" step-father finally reached her, his hand coming to grasp her arm.  
"Where the hell have you been?" he growled. "Your mother has been worrying herself into a tizzy asking where you are and why you haven't called. She's starting to think you've been carried off by gypsies."

 "I'm sorry, life has just gotten in the way."

 "And what are you doing all the way up here? This is a gentleman's club."

Sansa felt the urge to roll here eyes. "Woman are allowed here now."

 "Yes, but...but it is still an awful long way for you to go for lunch."

 "I was invited...by Mr. Baelish." She gestured to Petyr standing behind her, and suddenly the air in the room became palpable. 

 "Baelish," Brandon's eyes looked forward in disbelief. Petyr nodded and extended his hand toward the other man, their eyes locked in a fierce gaze. Sansa felt the tension rise in her throat. It was as if the two had met before - in some past life, or whatever - and this age-old feud had passed into the present along with them.  
"You two...know each other?" Brandon's eyes darted to Sansa.

 "Well we are neighbors," Sansa shifted awkwardly. The whole room might as well have frozen to watch this exchange, such was the cold intensity between these two men.

 "Will you excuse us for just a moment, I need to talk privately with Sansa," Brandon grabbed her arm and tugged her a few meters away.

 "What are you doing out with him?" he whispered harshly.

 "I told you he invited me."

 "Do you know what kind of man he is?"

 "Do you know him?"

Brandon opened his mouth to speak but then shut it promptly. "I don't need to, to know his reputation. He could be dangerous."

 "It was just lunch," Sansa sighed. "And you should speak for yourself. What are you doing here?"

 "There was a match," Brandon said after clearing his throat. "Afterwards the guys and I decided to stop by the club for a drink."

 "Really?"

 "Yes."

 "Does mom know where you are?"

 "Of course she does, I called her when we arrived, I told her when I'd be home. I...I haven't..."

Sansa nodded in understanding. "I trust you...so now it's your turn to trust me, Petyr and I are just neighbors. Isn't that right Petyr?" Sansa turned to where he had been standing but he had disappeared. "Telephone," Sansa supplied as a justification, to herself more than anything. "I'll call mother tomorrow, alright. I've got to go. Goodbye father."

Brandon released her arm and let her go. Sansa managed to weave herself out of the crowded restaurant and back into the quiet hallway. Secretly hoping Petyr would be waiting for her there, she - of course - was disappointed. 

Maybe he had already gone to meet Harry in the tea garden.

The tea garden was through a pair of glass doors with two lions in glittering gold leaf over the panes. The first thing that hit your nose as you walked in was the overwhelming aroma of herbs and brightly scented flowers. It was pretty, almost too pretty for a former gentlemen's club, but perhaps that was the point. This room had probably been a smoking room or recreational hall before the place changed. Lovely ladies, dressed in their summer best, sat around pots of tea and little cakes. Some older men, sat cross legged and reclined, a book in their lap and a cup by their hand, smoking from quiet pipes, rather than the aggressive cigarette or cigar. It was so peaceful compared to the room where she had lunched with Petyr and that Tywin fellow.

There was a hedge wall, acting as a soft of divider; crawling ivy and a network of weaving branches and leaves encased in glass, separating one side of the gardens from the other. Inside, were tiny little birds, budgies of some sort, hopping and singing in between the foliage. An interesting design, if a little sad when thought upon for too long. Sansa never did like the thought of caged animals, despite how beautiful the cage was.  
On the other side of the wall, sitting straight and upwards, like a dog on alert, was her date (in a word). 

 "Ahem," she coughed, as she approached and he shot up from his chair like his pants had caught on fire.

 "Sansa!" he shone with a bright smile. Not the right smile.

 "Harry," Sansa said curtly. "Did Mr. Baelish come by here?"

 "N-no, I haven't seen him...did he tell you..."

 "Yes, yes. I was just wondering if he...he kind of disappeared on me."

 "I wonder why," Harry smirked.

Sansa caught him in a quizzical expression. "What do you mean?"

Harry averted her gaze, awkwardly. "Would you like to sit down?" Sansa looked at the chair beside him warily. "Please," Harry added.

 "I would like to know what this is all about. What is so...important - that Petyr couldn't tell me himself? What do you know anyways?"

 "I know things," Harry gasped indignantly.

 "About Petyr? Last time I checked you knew little more of the man than I did."

 "And that was true, I didn't...not until he told me."

 "What did he tell you?" Sansa sat down, crossly.

 "It's complicated, at first it took me a moment to wrap my head around it as well. Do you remember that night at the party when Baelish asked me for a private audience?"

 "All too well," Sansa hissed under her breath.

 "It was to tell me what I'm about to tell you, he emphasized that it was important for you to know...you're very important to him in all this."

 "You make it sound like some kind of conspiracy."

 "It is...sort of." Sansa looked at him even more crossly. "Look, do you have the pin that he gave you?" Sansa nodded, her frustration ebbing away slightly. "And do you happen to have your Aunt's photograph with you?" Sansa froze. How did he know about that? "Petyr told me," Harry answered her silent question.

Sansa nodded, wordlessly. 

"May I see?"

She tentatively pulled them out of her purse and laid them on the table.

 "Ah," Harry grinned, as he situated the two objects in front of her. "What do you see?"

 "Excuse me?" Sansa growled. Her frustration was beginning to boil over.

 "Just humor me. What do you see?"

Sansa looked down at the photograph with an exasperated sigh.

 "I see...my mother and my Aunt and some boy that they knew when they were children."

 "Look closer."

Sansa eyed him, but leant forward to examine the photograph better.

 "It looks like summer, they look happy."

  "Look at the boy, what do you see?"

Sansa peered closely at the boy. There was something familiar about him, something in his smile.

 "Look at his hand, at what is in his hand?"

Sansa scanned over to the hand and suddenly realization dawned upon her like a flash of cold water. "It's Petyr!" she cried. Harry nodded. "But it can't be...I showed him this very photograph and he said he didn't recognize it."

 "Well he was lying, he has a copy of the photograph himself, that's how he convinced me he was telling the truth."

 "He lied to me..." Sansa felt something in her sink. Like she had been betrayed by that knowledge. 

"Once you know the story you might understand why," Harry continued. "After he told me so many things began to make sense, especially with Cat."

 "Cat?"

 "It was weird, that night after you left I stayed up a bit later to share a nightcap with Brandon. Your mother went to bed shortly after you left, feigning a headache. Brandon retired after one drink and I went for a walk -it helps me sleep. When I came back Cat was waiting for me and began asking me about Baelish, if I'd ever met him and what he looked like. If he looked well."

"What did you say?" Sansa leaned closer, intrigued.

 "I told her the truth, that I'd never actually met him, couldn't pick his face out of a crowd. At the time I just thought she was curious but the more I thought about it the more weird it seemed. It wasn't until Baelish asked to speak with me that it all fit together."

 "What did he tell you?" Sansa urged with her hands on his arm.

 "When he was a boy, about eight or nine, his father and he moved down to the Riverlands. He was vague on the reason why but he did mention his mother's passing around that time. I assume it had something to do with that. They became borders in the home of Hoster Tully."

 "My grandfather?"

 "Apparently he had a great family estate there with plenty of rooms and he and Baelish's father were old friends. Baelish Senior left after awhile on business and Petyr was practically fostered by your grandfather and raised with your mother, Aunt and Uncle until he was fifteen."

 "If that was true why has my mother not mentioned it? She talks about her past so colorfully but she never once said anything about another boy."

 "There's a reason for that." Harry pulled out an old worn letter from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Baelish was in love...with Cat."

 "What?"

 "Quite tragically, actually."

 "In love with my mother?" Sansa looked at the old note. It was indeed a small little handwritten love poem depicting some fiery-haired goddess of the river being his queen of love and beauty. It was signed with Petyr's name.

 "Has Brandon ever told you of a fight between him and another boy for your mother's hand?"

 "My...real father, Ned, he told me once when I was child...but you can't mean..."

 "Baelish was that boy," Harry nodded. "He was injured in the fight, he still has the scar that Brandon gave to him." That would explain Brandon's reaction to seeing Petyr earlier...and possibly why Petyr disappeared.

 "Why does he want me to know all this?" Sansa looked over at Harry, confusion settling deep in her features.

 "Well, that's the easy part. He still loves her. He's been waiting for her for over 15 years. It's no coincidence why his house is across the lake from your mothers, or why you are living next to him. He's been waiting for you for a long time."

 "Me?"

 "He built that house for her, he holds those parties for her. He wants her to see him and this place and come to him. He vainly hoped she would walk into one of the parties herself but she hasn't, and that's where you come in."

 "He wants me to take her to one of his parties?" Sansa asked skeptically. Her head hurt from all this information.

 "No, not exactly. He would like you to invite her to your house for tea then invite him over."

 "What?" Sansa groaned, her head throbbing now.

 "It makes it seem casual, you know. He's your neighbor and as far as your mother's concerned she doesn't know that you know this story. He'll just come over and they can...talk."

 "Talk?"

Harry nodded. "That's all he wants. To see her and to just...talk with her."

 "I can't believe this," Sansa groaned. "Petyr and my mother..."

It did make sense. It was frightening how much sense it made. Everything since that name had been uttered into her existence. The sidelong glances Cat and Brandon gave each other when Harry asked her if she'd met a man named Baelish; the way Lysa said it slow and purposefully. Heck, even when she first met him and he commented on the shade of her hair. He'd said "Only Riverlanders bear that shade" - what he meant was "you look exactly like the girl I was in love with all those years ago". Sansa felt like screaming, or crying, or both.

 "It can't be true," she muttered.

 "I wasn't there, so I can't vouch for the validity of these statements," Harry sighed, taking a nervous sip of tea and swallowing audibly. "But I know of someone who can."


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa felt a wary twinge of dread as she walked up the cobbled stone path to her Aunt Lysa's house. Harry followed closely behind her.

 "I can't believe we're doing this," Sansa muttered under her breath.

At least they had called ahead. Lysa might be able to get her household together enough to be hospitable. She really hoped neither Ros nor Marillion were there to cause her further grief. All she needed was more headaches. Harry knocked on the door for her as she collected herself. This could be different than the last time. Saner. The door flung open and Lysa came flying out to embrace her. (So much for sane.)

 "Sansa, my darling!" she cried. "So good to see you. I must say I was surprised when you called."

 "Hello Aunt Lysa."

 "Oh call me auntie, dear. Aunt sounds so distant." Lysa smiled warmly - in a way that made Sansa feel uneasy for some reason. "Oh, hello Harry." Her tone shifted a little from the welcoming warmth to a slightly sharpe-edged acknowledgement.

 "Come in, I'll make you some tea," she gently, but insistently tugged Sansa inside.

 "When you called you half-startled me. You sounded so distressed, like you needed me urgently," Lysa led them into the living room. "Can I get you something to eat, a light sandwich or some cookies."

Sansa shook her head. "No, no thanks, Aunt Lysa."  

 "A cup of tea then?"

"No, Aunt Lysa, please, could you...sit down for a moment, please? This isn't a social call."

Lysa's face was etched with worry instantly. "What is it? Your not in some kind of trouble are you?"

 "No..."

 "You're not pregnant are you? Oh tell me Harry isn't the father, oh Sansa!"

 "No!" Sansa cried indignantly. "No, it's nothing like that."

 "Then what is it dear?"

Sansa took a deep breath to summon all her courage. "I wanted to ask you something - something that might be a little...delicate."

 "Delicate?" Lysa echoed, finally sinking into her chair.

 "I want to know about you and my mother's history with Mr. Baelish," Sansa said without preamble. Lysa went pale.

 "B-Baelish? Who's he? Oh, he's that fellow in the house with the parties, right?" Lysa fluttered about, absently picking at a fraying thread on her frock.

 "Aunt Lysa," Sansa said crossly. "We know that Petyr grew up in the Riverlands with my mother and you. We already know about the duel with Brandon, the scar, everything."

 "You know everything do you?" Lysa hissed. Her mood shifting dramatically once again. "How much did he tell you?"

Sansa sat back. "He hasn't really told me anything. He told Harry."

 "And did Harry tell you of how your mother was cruel to him. How she played with him, toyed with his heart, and then broke it into a thousand tiny pieces!"

Sansa felt a nervous fear creep up her arms as Lysa continued. "He loved her, from the first moment. He was eight, I was seven and a half, Cat was nine, almost ten, and Edmure was just shy of six when Petyr came to live with us. Our childhood was golden! Petyr was the sweetest boy on the whole of this earth. Smart and curious; playful and kind; more passionate than any man I've ever known," Lysa stared off into the distance, reliving the memories once again. "He used to make us crowns out of carefully woven daisies, and braid our hair next to the river. We would play kissing games with him. He was such a sweet kisser. Such a gentle boy. Cat loved the attention but never wanted his affections. The poor thing." Lysa sighed sadly. "Then the war came. There was a training camp not far from us and all the young men in uniform came one by one to court your pretty mother. She was always the pretty one. Bright and witty. She wore white dresses and drove around in a pretty white car. She would go to the dances and dance with each soldier there. They were all entranced by her, but none so much as Petyr was. You should've seen the way he looked at her. The way every girl wants to be looked at. At our home we held a great summer dance to entertain some of father's guests. All the young soldiers were there, waiting for Cat to dance with them, but Petyr came, wearing his young cadets uniform - he'd enlisted for her. He looked so handsome. He went right up to her and asked her to dance, and they danced seven dances together. Seven - I counted. All the other boys left in disappointment. Petyr looked so happy...but when he leaned in to try to kiss her she pulled away and laughed at him. She laughed. He was so hurt. Then Cat left him to dance with someone else. He looked so sad I thought my heart would burst."

Sansa felt her own heart clench as she listened to this story. This was more than she expected. Poor Petyr. Lysa drifted back from whatever wistful memory she was replaying in the back of her mind and looked at Sansa. "At the end of that summer your mother met Brandon Stark, and announced their engagement at another one of my father's parties. Father was proud. The Stark family had a good reputation and good status. He always wanted us to marry well." Lysa scoffed bitterly. "Petyr was heartbroken, but still convinced that Cat loved him. He challenged Brandon to a duel. Brandon was five years older, and three times as strong, it was a fight he couldn't win, but he believed with all his heart that if Cat supported him, their love would see him through. Cat didn't even give him her scarf to wear as a favor, like he'd asked. Petyr tried so hard not to seem disheartened, but I could see." Lysa took a deep wistful sign before continuing. "That brute had him beat down in a manner of minutes, and with the blade of his army knife cut him from navel to collarbone. His cries were the most awful thing you could imagine. Cat managed to stop Brandon from killing him...but she didn't even turn back when he called for her. I never cried so hard in my life - as they took him away. There was so much blood."

Sansa had Petyr's pin clutched tightly in her hand as she listened to the story. Sansa could see the poor boy's face, calling out to her mother. It cut her deeply and ached in her chest. 

 "She didn't even visit him in the hospital as he healed. And he waited for her each day; waiting and watching, and hoping. Cat left to attend University in Winterfell that Fall, and Petyr was shipped away from the Riverlands before November. Everyone thought it was because of that fight...only I know the truth." Lysa rested her fingers near her stomach idly as she talked.

The unease settled in Sansa's gut again.

 "But all that's in the past," Lysa sighed, returning to a sad calm. "When Cat returned her engagement with Brandon was off, and she refused to see any soldiers for several months. There was one weird incident when she tried to catch the midnight train to King's Landing - she said to meet someone. I briefly thought it might've been Petyr. My father stopped her before she could even leave the grounds of our home. She was so distraught that night...but a few weeks later she was back to her old self, and then she went back to Winterfell for a while and came back announcing her engagement to Ned Stark, the younger Stark brother, and that summer they were married with more pomp and circumstance than even the Riverlands had ever seen."

Lysa leaned forward and grasped Sansa's hand. 

 "Oh dear, she loved your father, she truly did, don't you doubt that for a second. Their marriage was full of love and happiness, despite its occasional mishaps. She was never so happy than when she was with Ned; never so lost without him - and when he died Brandon was there for her when she needed him. He always regretted choosing the army over your mother, and he got a second chance to rectify that decision. Your mother would be worse off without him."

Sansa had to agree, though she didn't say anything. She was still rather stunned over all the information Lysa had just given her. So many conflicting emotions it threatened to make her head explode.

 "As far as I know it's been twenty years since Petyr last saw Cat. There was one incident though, on the day Cat married Brandon. You remember I was her bridesmaid. You and Arya were getting your hair done at the time. I went to her room to get her ready and she was lying in the bed, bottle-deep in bourbon, sobbing. In one hand she had the pearl necklace Brandon had given her, you remember the one, it was worth a fortune."

Sansa nodded, she did remember the necklace. Her mother wore it once and then locked it up in her jewelry chest.

 "And in the other was a note clenched tightly in her fist. When I made my presence known she looked up to me and handed me the necklace saying: "give these back to whoever they belong to and tell them Cat has changed her mind". She never goes by Cat, you know as well as I. There is only one person in this world who she ever let call her Cat, and that was Petyr. So I figure the letter must've been from him. I was so flustered about her state that I picked her up, stripped her of her gown and put her in the tub in the ensuite bathroom. She took the note in with her and soaked it; wrung it until it disintegrated in her hands and fell into the water. To this day only she knows what that letter said. After that she sobered up, I put her in her dress, redid her make-up and put the pearls around her neck and that was that. She married Brandon and never once has she said a word about what happened."

Lysa sat back with a heavy sigh.

 "And that is all I'm afraid. Our whole history with that man laid out for you as clear as day."

Sansa begged to differ. None of this was clear at all, it was in fact even muddier than before.

 "May I ask why you wanted to know? Did Petyr say something?"

There was hope in Lysa's eyes, a flicker of brightness that Sansa saw behind her irises. Something told Sansa to be wary of this.

 "N-no...I just found this old photograph," Sansa pulled the photo out of her pocket and showed it to Lysa. "I was curious."

 "Why didn't you ask Petyr yourself? It's really his story to tell. I might've told you something that he wouldn't want you to know."

Sansa felt something quirk in her. Something about that statement stuck her as odd.

 "Petyr can be...rather vague when he wants to be," was her only response.

 "Why would he want you to know anything? You're just a silly little girl!" Lysa snapped viciously as she snatched the photo away from Sansa. "How dare you steal this photograph from me!"

Lysa's moods were almost frighteningly ecstatic.

 "Did you think I wouldn't recognize my own property, you wicked girl! You're just like your mother. Always making a show of how sweet and innocent you are, wrapping everyone around your pretty little finger before you break their spirits and ride off into the sunset! Your mother never gave a damn about what anyone felt, and neither do you!"

Sansa reached over for Harry's hand out of fear as her Aunt loomed over her. 

"Are you sleeping with him?"

 "H-Harry?" Sansa asked tentatively.

 "Don't play daft with me! You know who I mean!" Lysa snapped. "Are you one of them...one of his girls?"

 "I don't know what you're talking about?" Sansa cried fearfully.

 "I can see it in your eyes, sweetie! You want him all for yourself, I know! My Petyr! I have waited for so long for him to come back to me, I will not have him taken away by some Stark bitch! I won't let his heart be broken once again by Cat or her little daughter. He's special! He's mine! We were meant for each other!" Lysa screamed, and looked as if she was about to hit Sansa when Harry stepped in the way.

 "Don't you touch her!" he said roughly. "She doesn't deserve any of that!"

 "Oh you poor thing, she already has you tangled in her web of lies, she's already wormed her way into your heart. She's using you...to get to him," Lysa's eyes were blazing with an inhuman rage and honestly Sansa was terrified of it. It was like hell had cast itself into the body of a woman and was trying to break through. She hid behind Harry with her eyes shut tight, praying away the demons coming out of Lysa.

 "I think it's time we left," Harry said sternly.

 "Fine, leave! Return to your master!" Lysa laughed cruelly. "This is not over!"

Harry turned and wrapped his arms protectively around Sansa and led her out of the building as quickly and as calmly as possible, slamming the door behind them.

As soon as her feet touched the weathered stone of the path outside Sansa let out a long exhale, and bowed forward, scooping her face in her hands. She felt like crying but no tears came. (Was that truly how Lysa felt about her?)

She felt a soft, tentative touch to her lower back. "Are you ok?" Harry asked gently.

 "Did you hear what she said?" Sansa's voice was shaky; she'd been shaken to the very core of her. "Does she really believe that of me?"

Harry's hands went to her shoulders and gently coaxed her upright. 

 "Those were the ramblings of a sick, desperately lonely old hag. They're not you," Harry said firmly, shaking her slightly. "They're not you, Sansa."

 "What do you know about me, Harry?" Sansa pushed away from him. "For all you know I could be exactly what she said I was."

 "That's ridiculous. Sansa, you don't use people to get what you want, I don't have to know much about you to figure that out. That first night we met you only ever wanted to be seen as equal with me. I saw the fury in your eyes when your father belittled your successes in comparing them to mine. I've known girls and women, and yes, even men, who manipulate people's feelings - their compassion, they're sympathy, their love - to further themselves. You are not one of them. You will get as far as you will on your own merits, because that is the kind of person you are. Honest, genuine, and kind. You are lovely."

Sansa stood stock still, absolutely dumbfounded at Harry's words. She'd honestly never thought him capable of such articulation. (Did he...did he care for her?)

The drive back home was quiet. The sun was fading into the horizon as they drove over the bridge. Sansa had not said a word since they left the house, and Harry...Sansa didn't know what to think about Harry. In some ways he was just as hard to read as Petyr was. Was he the galavanting playboy that she'd always assumed he was, or did he have a heart underneath that pressed tailored suit?

Sansa was quite confused on all accounts. This morning when she'd awoken her heart was fluttering over the prospect of being of some importance to a man she knew very little about. Well, now she knew all too much about said man, yet her heart still fluttered at the thought of seeing him once more, now without the goggles of blind adoration. Then Harry came along and...what was she supposed to do? Harry made her laugh, he respected her, treated her as more than a silly girl with silly dreams, and she...she liked him. 

The car pulled into the drive, the sun now gone completely from the sky. It had gotten much cooler, and Sansa shivered slightly as she stepped out of Harry's car onto the uneven gravel.

 "Here you are, safe and sound, as promised," Harry joked, stepping out of the car as well. "Baelish will be expecting you...to hear your answer, so, I'll..."

 "Harry, wait!" Sansa was suddenly no more than an arm's length away from him. "Just wait a moment, please."

Harry didn't move a muscle, not even to give her one of his boyish grins.

 "What you said, earlier, about me...was it...did you...what did you mean by that?"

Harry looked at her a long time before his lips cracked in a small half-smirk.

 "Sansa..."

 "No, wait! Please. Let me just..." she took a step closer to him, her arms lighting on his shoulders. "I don't know what I'm doing, but..."

She leant forward and kissed him. This arrogant, cheeky, playful, kind, strange, golden-haired, something-out-of-the-movies type boy who had managed to worm into her some kind of affection. Kissing him was the only answer she could give and it was an answer he received with a certain amount of shock, but as his own hands came to her waist he responded in kind.  
It was Sansa's kiss to dictate how long and how far it would go. She pulled away after a few moments and took a step back, her eyes averted to the ground as a blush threatened to creep up her neck into her cheeks. Harry was breathless and flush in the moonlight. They just stood close to each other, breathing in the same space for a long moment.

 "So...I'll see you later then," Harry broke the silence.

Sansa couldn't help but laugh when he did, sharing a soft gentle chuckle together. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

 "Alright, I'll call you...or better yet, you call me," Harry teased. "It's your turn. We can have dinner. You can reveal something totally devastating to me."

Sansa laughed and rolled her eyes. "Oh, like you're not as charming as you think you are?"

Harry clutched his chest as if he'd been shot. "Oh! You wound me! How could you, after all I've done for you?"

Sansa playfully shoved him. "All you did was give me a headache and buy me a cup of tea. Hardly life-altering."

 "Not true. I saved your life," Harry said indignantly.

 "How so?"

 "From that fire-breathing dragon lady with the forked tongue. I came to your defense!"

Sansa bowed her head in concession. "That you did, and I thank you, my brave knight." Sansa curtsied.

Harry took her hand and kissed it; a sweet, soft kiss to the inner palm. "And I'd do it again."

 "May I ask you something, Harry?" Harry paused for a moment before nodding his head.

 "Why do they call you the Falcon?"

Harry smirked. "In the Grand Prix, I was just this small nobody up-started and elevated because I was fearless and had the right connections. No one expected me to win. Then, last stretch, I shot around on the outside and they said, "like a falcon in the dive" claimed my victory. The nickname stuck. I've even had my car painted to look like a falcon. Not a very interesting story I know, but it suits me. The Young Falcon. The golden bird of prey. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

Sansa smirked to herself more than anything. "I must have a thing for birds," she thought to herself. "A Mockingbird and a Falcon."

 "Why do you ask?" 

 "No reason. I've just always wanted to know."

Harry nodded and kissed her fingers again. "He'll be waiting for you," Harry's tone and mood went solemn at the mention of the rather large elephant in the non-existent room. As if on cue Baelish's entire estate lit up as if on fire. Every light from every window pouring out into the dark like rays from the sun, blinding and bright. Sansa had to block her eyes and blink into Harry's shoulder as he shielded her from the onslaught of light.

 "You should go to him," Harry chuckled into her ear.

 "Let him wait," Sansa hissed, irritably. "I will go when I'm ready." She hugged Harry tighter and she swore she could feel him smirk into the crook of her neck. Suddenly the brilliant lights from the grandiose mansion beside her began blinking. Simultaneously turning off then back on again; an incessant beckoning.

 "I don't think he can," Harry smirked, pulling away from her, his hands on her shoulders. "Go to him. He's been waiting for this answer a long time. It would be cruel to make him wait any longer. Give it to him and then I will see you in a couple of days. Go...before the neighbors call the cops because the madman next door has turned his mansion into a lighthouse."

Sansa laughed and released him, nodding her head. "I will."

 "I will see you later. You owe me dinner," he chuckled, clambering back into his car. 

 "Fine," Sansa groaned. "Be gone then!"

Harry reached out of the window on the driver's side and grabbed her wrist gently. “Promise you will call," he asked, his eyes nearly pleading and Sansa softened to him, warmth crawling from her stomach to under her chin.

 "I will."

 "Promise," Harry insisted.

 "I promise," Sansa conceded.

 "Good. I want to hear all about it," Harry grinned, revving up his engine and screeching out of the drive.

His last words soured her a little. Was he interested in her or just in her situation - and what a situation it was!    Sansa's head was still pounding over all the information she's had to digest today. All of Petyr's darkest secrets laid out for her by ghosts, hellish demons and strangers. And still, there was more to be uncovered. Every layer revealed another and another, she would have to whittle him down to an atom before he would be completely known to her, and even then, he'd still have an atom worth of secrets still undiscovered. 

The lights blinked at her in ongoing invitation, till Sansa tilted her head back to the sky and sighed. It was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of exposition in this chapter. And a little bit of a romantic sub-plot for Sansa. All the more fun! More to come!


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The front door - as he'd said it would be - was unlocked, and despite the brilliant lights the house was eerily silent and still. The lights did nothing but project how hollow this place was without life in it. Sansa suddenly felt a pinch of sadness in her chest, right behind her sternum. 

Petyr had dreamed of filling this place - he'd told her - with love. Now Sansa understood the sadness in his eyes, wherever he looked. The woman he had wanted to share it with - this house, this dream - had rejected him and now...now he just wanted to see her.

Sansa walked slowly through the foyer, trying to imagine a life here; her brothers and sister; her mother - she tried to picture them here, but it all came up short. Petyr was no replacement for Ned, just the same as Brandon. But of the two, who deserved a second chance at happiness? Brandon waited fifteen years to right a mistake he had made, and now was shirking it for other pleasures to add on top. Petyr had waited twenty, waiting and hoping, and building, and scheming, for this one moment where he could just...see her again.

Sansa couldn't fathom such longing; she missed her real father from time to time but she would never go so far as to build a shrine of such magnitude in the hopes it would bring him back, and there was certainly no great love in her life to warrant such a feat either. Petyr was so strange, and beautiful, and broken - a boy fighting for meaning, for some kind of purpose.

Sansa had made her decision. Her feet walked her up the sullen grande staircase that had seemed so bright and safe her first time in his house - amongst the sea of strange, mystical bodies - and now seemed so lifeless and bare. For some reason she knew where to go without thinking about it. She walked past rooms and corridors; parlors and cupboards; through weaving vestibules and up dark staircases until she stood at the top of the mansion. So many nights she had seen him at his perch in this room. Surprisingly it was not his bedroom, as she'd thought it would be. In fact, it was his personal study. A small room, smaller than the second floor library and office which she had originally presumed was his study. 

Petyr stood at the large window over looking the lake, his green light shining on to his face. The house's flickering lights had ceased and now it was nothing but moon beams and emerald light. The shadows caressed his face in a soft sadness; Sansa could feel the emptiness of the room as if it was an extension of himself - an extra limb or appendage reaching out to her, to clasp, to touch something real and soft and kind. Sansa barely took two steps in the room before he sensed her presence, not even looking away from the imaginary point in space and time where his gaze was fixed.

 "You came," he sounded relieved, as if he half-believed she wouldn't.

 "I did," Sansa replied, her feet rooting to the spot, not trusting herself to go any nearer to him for fear of what would break free from her if she did.

 "I was waiting. I wasn't sure if you..." he turned to her, his mask broken for a flash as she saw a streak of vulnerability - like a bolt of lightning in a cloudy night sky - break across his face. "I'm glad to see you."

Sansa felt her heart beat wildly in her chest. "I talked to Lysa."

She was hoping to see some tension, maybe a sign of fear in his posture or in the whites of his eyes, but none came, his shoulder only slumped a little forward as he exhaled a little sigh.

 "I thought you might," his fingers came to light gingerly on his desk. "What did she tell you?"

 "About you...and my mother. Brandon. The fight. Everything."

 "Lysa's always had her bent on things. She probably told you about our unique relationship."

 "Not outright, but she alluded very strongly."

 "Most of that is in her head. She took something very precious from me, and because of her selfishness I had to pay a very dear price. But she loves me and though I try not to encourage it I do try to treat her with a certain...sympathy. She has gone through a lot in her lifetime; her and I are kin in that way. Love and life has never been particularly kind to our dreams."  

 "My mother..."  

 "I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth when you asked about that picture. I had no idea what to say. I felt that I couldn't tell you that I was that boy in the photograph. It was too soon to tell you all this, I needed you to understand...to believe that I have nothing but good, honorable intentions."

 "I know," Sansa nodded her head. "But why...why do you just want to...talk?"

Petyr's eyes fell to the floor and his mouth quirked in a sad grimace.

 "Your step-father beat me down in a handful of minutes and left me bleeding and scarred. When I lay in my room healing my wounds I had hoped and prayed that Cat would visit me."

 "To offer up some sort of apology?"

 "No," Petyr shook his head. "I wanted so hard to believe that it all hadn't been for nought. That it wasn't all a lie or a dream or some painful misunderstanding."

 "You want an explanation."

 "At first, yes, but now...I just want to see her again. I want her to see me; we haven't seen each other in twenty odd years. My feelings for her haven't changed in all this time, and maybe...I don't know...I just need to see her once more, come what may."

 "I'll call her tomorrow," Sansa said resolutely.

 "Tomorrow?"

 "To invite her over for tea. What time do you think would be best?"

 "You don't have to rush into this. I understand if you need a few days to mull it over. I don't want you to decide anything brashly."

 "How about Wednesday then?"

 "Uh, no, I have...business that day. Thursday would be better."

 "Thursday it is then," Sansa gave him a small half smile for encouragement. 

His mouth opened and closed in a nervous hesitation, his eyes shying away from gets to stare at his hands and fiddle with the ring on his pinky finger.

 "What is it? Would you rather put it off for a few days?"

 "No, Sansa. It's not that. At least -" his normally perfectly calculated words were failing right before her eyes as he fought himself to utter even an acceptable start to his sentence. "I thought - I wanted to ask *sigh* look, sweetling, you aren't making a whole lot where you work, do you?

 "No, not really."

Petyr nodded his head, as if he was trying to assure himself on what he was going to ask next.

 "Well perhaps I might be able to help."

Sansa shook her head. "Please Petyr don't, I don't want to take your charity."

 "It's not that, it's a real job. You see I carry on a few little side businesses, and I thought you may want to - you work as a secretary right now, isn't that right?"

 "Assistant really."

 "You could be so much more!"

Sansa had no choice but to cut him off there. In another life, if their lives weren't so entangled as they were now, had she met him in a different world or different time she would be fool not to listen to his entire proposal. Unfortunately they both knew she knew too much for her to work for him or beside him in any sort of fairness. On top of that, she couldn't help but recall her encounters with both Tywin Lannister and the Spider. "Are you one of his girls?" She did not understand fully who "Littlefinger" was but she had the distinct feeling she didn't want to be one of his girls.

 "I can't!" She blurted. "I'm very grateful but I'm barely staying on top of the work that I do have. Thank you."

Petyr's eyes steeled and he slipped behind his mask momentarily once again. "I understand."

There was a weighted pause between them for a long moment. Petyr looked like he wanted to say something but lacked the words to compose a fit sentence worth uttering. In the end it was Sansa who spoke first.

 "Who are the Spider and Lannister?" Sansa asked. "What connection do you have to them or them to you? You don't seem to like each other's company all that much."

 "The job is not with them," Petyr tried to follow her trail. Sansa rolled her eyes. 

 "That's not what I meant. Who are these men you do business with? They're not your friends, if anything they seem very keen to see you fall."

 "They are very serious about their work."

Sansa eyed him warily. "That's it?"

"No." Petyr sighed, rubbing his brow with his hand. "Look Sansa, there is certain aspects of the work that I do that is rather...unsavory. It's all legal, I'm not a mercenary or a hit man or anything like that, but...the less you know the easier it can be to protect you. I have a lot of rivals looking for an inside track, a vulnerability. Not just the Spider and Tywin. It's all part of the game. We're all climbing this ladder and there are some who will do anything to knock their opponents off the rungs. I am playing for distinctly different reasons and motivations, but that doesn't mean that the fall won't be great for me. I have a great interest in you Sansa, and they see that, and they might want to use you to get to me. I need you, and I will do everything in my utmost power to make sure you don't get pulled into my dark world."

Sansa felt the vein at her temple pulse again. Why couldn't he just answer simply? There were too many layers.

 "You make it sound like there will be assassins coming to kidnap me in the night."

 "No, nothing quite as dramatic as that. It's all politics. Reputation and influence. Physically they do no damage but on paper...they can make your life a living hell."

 "These rivals would want to destroy you so much that they would use any connection to you to do it?"

 "I've been steadily climbing this ladder for years. I have kept my objectives and goals as tightly under lock and key as one would diamonds and heirlooms. That makes me dangerous. They do not know what I want so they have no idea what I am like to do next. In our world that is unnerving prospects indeed. But now...you have the power to destroy everything I have built with just a wave of your hand if you choose. I trust you with this power, I have to - to get what I want more than anything in this life."

 "My mother?"

 "Closure."

Sansa reached out and gently placed her hand on his chest. It expanded under her fingers as his breath hiked sharply. 

 "May I see it?" Sansa asked. She could feel the apprehension seeping from his pores. He'd probably never shown the scar to anybody ever.

 "You want to see it?" he asked quietly.

 "Yes."

 "Looking for proof to my story," he chuckled self-deprecatingly.

 "No, I...I just want to see it."

She dropped her hand from his chest suddenly and took a step back. He hesitantly placed his hands on the buttons of his shirt, contemplating her request.

 "All right," he muttered in concession, removing his jacket and draping it on the chair behind him. He removed his tie and his waistcoat before turning back around. The vulnerability set in his cheeks and shoulders making him appear younger, more innocent and small, like a child. He slowly slipped the buttons through their holes, and shucked off his pristine shirt, removing cufflinks from around his wrists to allow the fabric to pass over his arms. He stood in only his undershirt, a slight noticeable shake in his left arm, his eyes averted to the floor as his hands sought the hem of the simple cotton tank and pulled it over his head. His body shifted into the shadow so she couldn't see the revelation at first, but as he gently folded the shirt he turned his body back into the beams of moonlight. Sansa's mouth fell open in a silent gasp. The scar - an angry looking pink and silvery-white gash - reached from just above his tender and toned belly to right underneath the pale hollow of his slim throat, passing over his heart in a slight crescent-shaped bow; not a completely straight line. His hands were clenched at his side and his eyes were fixed to something above her head. His throat bobbed with silent gulps as if the hair had become thicker to swallow. Those grey-green orbs beheld their soft, mournful sadness, as he tried very hard not to look ashamed at the marred flesh. 

 "Why should he be?" Sansa thought. He was beautiful. Flawed and genuine in his present nakedness. The enigma suddenly lost all smoke and unearthly quality and became a man - the most human of men - he was that boy still, from the photograph. A vessel of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises; a martyr to cold, cruel reality. A survivor of a great tragedy, still full of bright glistening hope after wading through years of shattered glass and ash. A magnificently flawed diamond!

Her hand reached without her will to lay flat over the widest stretch of the scar over the heart; she felt his muscles twitch and spasm at the touch, she watched his Adam's apple bob. His eyes shone almost like tears in the warm blue haze of the moonlight. 

 "I will help you," she said firmly, more sure of those words than of anything else in her entire life.

His body relaxed under her hand in relief. "Thank you, sweetli-- Sansa," he smiled with the corner of his mouth, making the expression seem quite pained.

 "I will call my mother tomorrow, make the arrangements."

 "Whatever time works best for you," Petyr stepped away from her and hastily covered himself once again, the perfect mask slipping back into place once more. "I don't want to inconvenience you any more than I have to."

 "We agreed Thursday."

 "Yes, but...I would like to get the lawn cut."

Sansa couldn't help but laugh slightly at that. Petyr seemed to bristle at her laughter; possibly because he didn't quite understand what she had found the humor in.

 "The day after that then," Sansa suggested.

 "That should work...if it's not too much trouble, of course," Petyr said courteously.

 "It's not, I assure you," she sighed.

 "Fine then, there we have it," his hands fidgeted as he tried desperately hard to put on his tie with some modicum of elegance.

Sansa slapped his hands away and began tying the tie herself, not even thinking about the gesture all that much.

 "Where did you learn to do this, sweetling?"

Sansa smiled to herself slightly. “I used to do this for my father, he called me his little helper...I used to enjoy it very much, it was something I could do for him that no one else could...made me feel special."

Petyr's eyes glinted with something she did not recognize. "Let's go to Coney Island," he said suddenly.

 "Right now?"

 "Yes, we'll go, right now! We'll take my car!"

Sansa felt unease in her stomach at the thought of being in that car again. "It's too late, Petyr."

 "Then perhaps you'd like to go for a swim in the pool. I haven't made use of it myself all summer."

 "I should really be getting to bed, I work in the morning."

"Ah, yes, of course," he couldn't hide the disappointment in his eyes. Was he afraid of losing sight of her for one minute, in case she changed her mind? Maybe he just didn't want to be alone anymore. The thought saddened her. Without much thought she leaned forward and pressed a soft chaste kiss to his cheek. He reacted as if he'd been struck. She stepped away from him.

 "Goodnight Petyr," she smiled warmly at him.

 "May I see you tomorrow?" he asked.

 "I work."

 "The next day then, I will come over...we can talk more, discuss details."

Sansa was already walking towards the door. "I don't think that will be necessary," she sighed as her hand reached the door. "I think I know enough to handle everything properly."

Petyr almost laughed. "Do you think you know me?"

She did, she knew his heart to the very core, every scar and fissure; she could tell he knew she did, she could even tell that he was pleased by that knowledge. Sansa turned to him, a serene statue; feeling unearthly and more powerful than any creature of her kind should have right to.

 "I know what you want."

His grey eyes drank in the sight of her, memorized every contour and speck and twitch. His mouth threatened to quirk at the edge; a smile or a grimace she couldn't tell. It was true she didn't know everything about what he did, or has done to get him this far in life. There was a certain air of danger surrounding him like a shimmering blue aura. He was the kind of man who would risk everything; orchestrate and calculate; scheme and weave, and entangle. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. He had side businesses, hands in many pies, and connections for any and every eventuality. "Unsavory" was probably the most polite word for some of the deals he'd had to make to further himself one step closer, one rung higher up that imaginary ladder, climbing to reclaim a lost dream - or its equivalent. 

She knew exactly what she had to do.

That night, she lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, replaying the events of that day; every piece of information she sorted and catalogued, pieced and strung together in her mind to create the picture of Petyr she would keep to herself. 

She didn't know if Petyr went to Coney Island or if he stayed in his study at the top of his tower looking out amongst his kingdom of ash and dreaming about what the future may hold. She honestly didn't think of him at all, not his present self anyways. She was too wrapped up in her own mournful self-loathing to contemplate his state of mind. For she had come to a most ragged and dreary conclusion. She was in love with him, the enigma turned man in all his flaws and dark shades; his purity and his stains. Sansa Stark was in love with Petyr Baelish!

...and he was in love with her mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gatsby-Baelish at his most adorable. I know most of you are worried that Sansa and Baelish's relationship will be lost in the wake of the Petyr-Gatsby/Cat-Daisy plot but don't worry, I have a few more little detours planned for the last half of this story, utilizing all this Petyr and Sansa bonding I have put in until now, while also staying pretty close to the original material. You'll just have to enjoy the ride!


	12. Chapter 12

The next few days went by in a blur for Sansa. The morning after that fateful day, she woke with a heavy heart and a tight neck as she tried to piece together a simple enough excuse to invite her mother over for tea. 

On her break at work she had finally come up with a script that seemed plausible enough to work. She prayed it was Cat who picked up the phone and not her step-father.

 "Hello."

The voice was unrecognizable to her.

 "Is Catelyn Stark there?" she asked nervously. A silent pause answered her.

"Who's calling?"

 "Her daughter. Sansa."

Another long pause.

 "One moment please."

Sansa huffed, blowing her hair upwards. This was ridiculous, she couldn't even call her own mother without having to make an appointment first.

 "Sansa! Sansa darling!" her mother cried over the phone. "Is that you?"

 "Yes, of course it is. Who was that?"

 "Rodrik, our butler. Did you not recognize his voice," she sighed airily. 

 "No, I am not well acquainted with your house staff, I've only visited once."

 "And whose fault is that?" Cat teased, for a moment almost sounding like the mother Sansa remembered.

 "I've been busy," Sansa sighed. "Look, I'll make it up to you. Are you available for tea this Friday?"

 "That sounds lovely! I'll let your father know."

 "No! I mean...I was thinking it would be just you and me, a girl's day. We haven't done anything just the two of us since I left for High Garden."

 "You're right. Just girls then. No Brandon."

 "Yes, no Brandon. And no Lysa either!" Sansa covered her mouth, cursing herself silently.

Cat laughed. "I wasn't going to invite her anyways, but now I'm curious."

 "It's nothing, it's just the last time she and I crossed paths...I just think it's best if we didn't see each other right now."

"I understand. Your aunt can be a bit overbearing and vindictive when she wants to be.”

 "So Friday at four?"

 "Sounds perfect."

 "And don't bring Brandon. Don't even mention it to him!"

 "Who is Brandon?" her mother asked in faux-innocence.

It made Sansa smile from her chest. It had been a long time since she's joked and talked with her mother. Perhaps that's why she was so willing to do this...on the off chance this insane neighbor of hers might bring her old mother back to her as well.

That Friday was greeted with a bleak, cool, but relatively dry morning. The summer warmth was slowly eking away into the crisper fall. The days were getting shorter, the sun was a tad less bright, even the flowers seemed to dull a little in color - preparing for the more earthy vibrance of autumn. Sansa stood outside in her garden watering her roses which still hadn't bloomed yet. She bit her lip as she examined one of the buds. "Come on little fella," she murmured. "Open up just a little. The world is so beautiful. Don't be afraid of it." The bud refused. Sansa sighed and gave up for the time being. You couldn't encourage a rose forcefully, they had to be dealt with a gentle hand.

A cough startled her, her heart lurching in the hopes that it was Petyr - it wasn't. She laughed though when she saw who it was. A stern looking man - Petyr's groundskeeper - carrying a lawnmower. 

"I'm here to cut the lawn," he muttered.

Sansa couldn't help but laugh. Her lawn was fine, well maintained, a great shade of green if she said so herself, but nothing was good enough for the boy next door. The nervous boy who was doing everything in his power to show how far he'd come in the last 20 odd years. She laughed because he was still that boy. If she hadn't laughed she thought she might've cried. How she loved that boy.

When she calmed herself down enough to speak she allowed the groundskeeper to cut her lawn as she went back inside to get dressed. She had it planned that she was going to pick some things up for the tea. Some simple flowers, some fresh lemon cakes from the adorable little bakery she found just on the edge of Flea Bottom. Harry had been generous enough to fuel up her Dodge for her the day before. It was almost noon when she was on her way back. There was a small flower shop near the bakery with a beautiful selection of tulips, daffodils and daisies, in the window. She had stopped in and bought a bouquet, thinking it would be a nice touch on her little table for that afternoon's tea. If she got home quickly sed have enough time to start boiling water and setting out the china - maybe even get some of the cakes plated before Petyr arrived.

All of that was futile, she realized, as she drove up the long green and moss-covered drive. Petyr was already waiting for her with several trucks - people arms full with flowers and curtains, and runners, and various platters of tiny, delicately made sandwiches.

Sansa parked her dodge and stepped out, fixing Petyr with a look as she approached him.

 "I gave very strict instructions that no one enter your home without permission," he gave as explanation. 

 "It's not a wedding," she muttered under her breath, marching past him into her house. 

 "Sweetling!" Petyr followed.

 "Go ahead! Redecorate my home, I'm just going to put these daisies in some water and put them out where they can get some sunshine. Do whatever you like!" Sansa waved her hand petulantly. She was not in the mood for Petyr's pitying looks. She had half a mind to plop herself out on the veranda and eat her lemon cakes all by herself. Petyr be damned!

She couldn't. Not barely half a minute after the thought crossed her mind did a loud peel of thunder break the silence. Petyr was at the window in a heartbeat, looking distressed as the rain poured down in droves as if it had been waiting for this perfect opportune moment. 

The workers were quickly ushered in with their wares. Some furniture was moved around, Petyr gently directing the traffic as Sansa went about making tea - her own tea - apparently Petyr had already sent out for an expensive gold percolator, which was carried in and set on the impressive sandwich display being made on Sansa's small little table. The workers were in and out in mere minutes, leaving the room completely transformed and absolutely spotless. Sansa had to admit she was impressed with their efficiency. The trucks and cars zoomed away and it was as if they had never existed. Only Petyr remained, standing at the window, ringing his driving gloves tightly in his hands, muttering curses to himself. Sansa watched him, sipping her tea and munching on a cake. He was wearing a beautiful, pristine white suit , silver shirt, and gold colored tie, with a mockingbird tie pin similar to the pin he had given her. He looked quite handsome standing there, his suit highlighting the neat charcoal hair on his head with the weaving strands of silver at his temples. He was pale, and looked like he'd slept very little in the last week.

 "You know," she said with her mouth full. She swallowed. "You know my mother is never going to believe I set this up."

Petyr shot her a look that she could only describe as laced with disdain. "She only has to believe it for a moment," he muttered.

 "She won't."

 "Say your boss gave you a bonus."

 "A tea bonus?"

 "Alright...say someone owed you a favor."

 "She will think I've sold myself to the mob."

 "Then say Lysa helped you!"

 "Oh, because Lysa is normally so charitable."

 "Then say it was Brandon!" he barked. "Say anything you want; don't say anything at all! She just can't know it was me."

 "Alright then," Sansa sighed, sipping from her oversized mug.

 "Is that what you're wearing?" he muttered. Sansa gave him a thoroughly exasperated look. "It's nice," he looked away, back out into the rain. It was not letting up at all. "Is everything all right?" he asked after a tense moment.

 "The grass looks fine, if that's what you mean," Sansa said a little teasingly. 

 "Hmmm?" he looked up at her blankly. "Oh, the grass...in the yard." He looked out the window again. Something told Sansa it was not grass he was looking at, if he was looking at all. Judging from his expression Sansa believed he didn't see a thing.

 "The rain is supposed to stop by four," he muttered. "I checked."

 "Do you want something to drink? Calm your nerves?" Sansa asked.

 "What are you eating?" he looked at her sharply.

 "Lemon cakes. My mom and I's favorites. We used to have an old neighbor who made the best, but these are pretty good. I bought a box for tea."

 "Show them to me."

Sansa was a little taken aback by the demand to see her dainty little cakes, but chose not to argue. She went back to the pantry to take out the little box she had stored away there to keep it out of the way of the flurry of traffic that had been in there not moments before. Sansa brought the box to him where he stood at the window and offered it for his inspection. He glanced long and hard at the confections inside, as if deciding whether they fit into his master plan or not.

 "Will they do?" she asked, a teasing lilt in the corner of her smile.

 "Of course, of course! They're fine," he waved her off as if she was a petulant child disrupting his concentration. Sansa frowned but went to the kitchen to put the lemon cakes on a small platter and somehow arrange it with the other delicacies on her already overwrought table.

The rain calmed down to a light misting and the sun even threatened to peek out from behind the thick bleak clouds to spread a little warmth. Sansa thought there was nothing so beautiful. Petyr looked even more distressed than before; he began to pace in front of the window. He checked his watch in what must've been the fifteenth time in the last twenty minutes.

 "This was a mistake. She's not coming!" he suddenly began tearing towards the garden door, making to leave.

 "Petyr!" Sansa chased after him, catching his arm as his hand reached the handle.

 "It's five minutes to, give her a chance to be late before you lose all hope," she sighed. This was like dealing with Rickon when he refused to go down for a nap.

 "I shouldn't have made you do this, this was a mistake. Everything. The flowers, the cakes, the stupid bloody table cloths! I need to go now."

Sansa stood firm in from of the door. "You're not leaving."

 "Yes, I am."

 "Petyr. Sit down!" Sansa said firmly. She stretched herself so long she nearly towered over him with an authority she'd never possessed before.

Petyr looked as if her voice had struck him across the face. She gave him a light shove away from the door and towards the centre of the living room once again. He sighed, moping his way to one of her mismatched chairs and plopping down into it miserably. If he kept acting like this she was going to smack him. Before she could berate him for acting like an idiotic child there was a sound of a motor turning into the lane. Petyr was on his feet in an instant; clambering to the front window like a dog sensing the return of its owner. Petyr's pale face lit up for a brief instant before turning even graver than before.

He turned to Sansa. "It's her." Sansa wanted to roll her eyes - of course it was her - but resisted the urge. "Well what are you waiting for?" he gently grabbed her arm and hoisted her towards the door. "Bring her in."

Sansa whacked his arm to force him to release her. He recoiled like a cat. Her hand gestured sharply for him to go sit down as she straightened her white frock. Cat couldn't know that something was amiss. Sansa swiftly trotted outside just as Cat's beautiful convertible turned into the drive. A long lavender hand shot up and waved at her. Sansa's annoyance melted at the warm greeting from her mother. The car stopped and her mother's face peeked out of a beautiful lavender fascinator.

 "Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?" she said with such melody Sansa could barely comprehend it as words. Cat's voice rippled through the rain like chimes. A streak of fiery red hair, streaked like paint across her cheek as she stepped out of the car perfect and damp. She removed her fascinator and shook out her long hair.

 "I love the rain! Don't you?"

Sansa smiled. "I do."

 "Nothing like a summer rain to go for a drive," Cat smiled brightly, her blue eyes sparkling against the dew drops of water on her eyelashes. "My dear," she stretched her arms out to Sansa, openly welcoming. "Come," she beckoned. Sansa couldn't help but dash into her mother's arms, allowing herself to be enveloped by her mother's warm, albeit wet, embrace. "Now, my love, are you pregnant?"

Sansa nearly choked on her own tongue. "What?" She pulled back from her mother's arms incredulous.

 "Are you in love?"

 "Mom!" Sansa felt her ears grow hot in an instant. 

 "Well why else did you insist I come alone?"

Sansa left her mother's embrace entirely purely to hide how furiously red her face was turning. "I just wanted to spend some time with you, without Brandon. You know, mother-daughter time, like when I was little."

 "Oh! How thoughtful!" Cat beamed and cupped Sansa's cheek, kissing it softly and tapping her on the nose. "Well then, give me the grand tour!"

Sansa led Cat inside, helping her with her lavender coat and hat, placing them on the little table beside the door. “How darling!" Cat cried. "It's very you, Sansa dear." Cat looked down. "My sweet, your hands are positively shaking. Are you cold?"

 "No," Sansa shook her head. She was so nervously anticipating her mother's reaction to seeing Petyr standing in her living room even her hands were excited.

 "Are you sure you're not pregnant?"

That made her hands ball into fists. "Yes."

Cat laughed melodically and began walking towards the living room. "Please Sansa I'm just teasing. You really ought to - oh!"

Sansa rushed over to Cat's side, ready with an explanation for what was no doubt the familiar face Cat was stunned by. The words died on her tongue though as she was met with an empty room. 

Where the hell did he go? Sansa chanced a look into her bedroom but it was empty as well. He'd bolted. Coward.

 "Such beautiful flowers," Cat commented as Sansa looked around. "How could you afford all this?"

Dammit...she knew this was going to happen.

 "Margaery...uh, she had ordered too many flower arrangements for her bridal shower, she asked if I would like to take some off her hands. They delivered them this morning. Pretty, no?"

 "Very lovely. And the sandwiches?" Cat pointed to the colorful array on the table. 

"Oh I...I ordered a small plate last minute from this quaint little deli in Flea Bottom, I think the young man there has a crush on me. Gave me entirely too much than I ordered."

Cat gave Sansa a coy look. "Was he handsome?"

Sansa shrugged. "He was ok."

 "Well it's delightful. Absolutely delightful!" Cat smiled and gracefully sat down. "You, my dear girl, are a real charmer!"

 "Oh yeah. Real charmer," Sansa muttered, to herself more than anything.

A sudden knock came from the front door. Cat perked up. "Who could that be?" 

 "Uhh...I don't know...let me check. Uh, help yourself."

Cat nodded and set about fixing herself a plate. Sansa quickly darted to the door and opened it, almost jumping right out of her skin when she saw a familiar face standing there miserably in the misty rain. He looked sheepish, ghostly pale, and he glared at her sullenly.   
"Petyr," she whispered lowly.

He quickly shoved past her, inside, without a word. A hand came up to smooth his damp hair - which had become disheveled in his no doubt hasty escape - as he marched into the living room. Sansa heard her mother gasp, followed by a long, pregnant silence. She slowly crept down the corridor to see Cat's reaction to Petyr standing there, waiting expectantly for her reaction.

 "Cat," he said coarsely, as if his throat had gone as dry as the desert. His hand was shaking in a fist at his side. Sansa noticed out of the corner of her eye.

A wash of unreadable emotions crossed Cat's face in a blink of an eye. Her eyes were wide and incredulous as she stared at him. Her fingers were frozen, holding onto one of the sandwiches on her plate. 

Sansa felt her heart beat wildly in her chest. This was just like it was in the movies. Were they going to rush into each other's embrace? Was Cat going to burst into tears? Was Petyr going to profess his love? The anticipation was killing her.

 "You..." Cat started, her brow furrowing. Sansa's breath caught. So did Petyr's. "You little worm!" she suddenly cried vehemently, tossing the uneaten sandwich in her fingers at him. He shifted just in time to have the sandwich fly by his head. "You orchestrated this, didn't you? My own daughter!" she tossed another sandwich at him.

 "Cat," he pleaded gently. "Let me explain!"

 "The flowers! The sandwiches! It reeks of you!"

 "I had no other choice," Petyr kept dodging her onslaught of flying comestibles, taking a step closer to her each time. 

 "If I had known it was you...that you wanted to see me..."

 "I was afraid you'd turn me away..."

 "I would've come!" Cat cried, her eyes blinking with moisture. "I would have come."

Petyr halted, his words dying in his throat as their eyes fell on each other once again.

Cat suddenly made a sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh, her hand coming to cover her face for a brief moment. "I certainly am awfully glad to see you again."

Petyr's face broke in what Sansa could only describe as the first genuine smile she'd ever seen from the man. It rounded the apples of his cheeks and softened him from forehead to chin. It even reached his eyes for a brief moment before he averted his gaze to the floor, bashfully sticking a hand in his pocket.

Cat looked over to Sansa, all of the sudden remembering that she was there.

 "Oh, Sansa," she laughed at herself and the state of the floor a little. 

Petyr turned towards her as well. "We've, uh, met before," he muttered, causing Cat to snort and him to chuckle lightly.

Sansa was rightfully a little speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Petyr bickering is my favourite thing about writing this story. Lemon Cakes for all!!


	13. Chapter 13

After that initial scuffle - when the laughter died and Petyr stared long and hard at the floor with his hands in his pockets - a nervous disquiet settled throughout the trio in that small living space. Sansa thought it ludicrous. The man whose every breath was measured and every word pre-chosen before leaving his mouth was now standing as dry as a desert well, acting like a young boy in front of a movie star. Cat waited expectantly, trying to maintain a kind smile, her eyes darting back and forth from Petyr to Sansa then back to Petyr almost desperately hoping one of them would break the heavy silence.

The awkwardness in the room was as sharp as rose thorns. 

Cat looked sheepishly at the spilt confectionary on the floor that she had tossed at Petyr during their altercation.

 "Sansa, do you have a broom?" she said softly, her eyes darting up to Sansa's.

Petyr took that as his cue to launch himself out of the way and across the room to the mantel over the fireplace that he awkwardly flopped against in a vague attempt to appear casual. Sansa watched him curiously. He was being so strange. A far cry from the calm and collected man she had grown accustomed to. He looked about ready to bolt again, this time into the lake to drown himself.

 "I'll get it. Don't worry about it mother. Here," Sansa took the crumpled plate from Cat's hands and began picking up the soiled cakes and sandwiches from the floor. "Get yourself another plate, I'll make you a cup of tea. Petyr, would you like a plate?"

Petyr mumbled incoherently and waved his hand, his face buried between his shoulder and the wall. His hand was resting on the clock in the center of the mantelpiece. Cat smiled at him and then looked at Sansa, giving her a knowing grin. With that small encouragement Sansa felt it safe enough for her to retreat to the kitchen to make tea.

Cat fixed herself a fresh plate of assorted goodies and one for Petyr as well. She walked over to where he awkwardly stood, face gratefully out of the wall. His eyes widened ever-so-slightly the closer she got.

 "In case you get hungry," she muttered to him, handing him the plate. He stared at her, wide-eyed, like a young boy. The left side of his face threatened to crumple into a small smile.

 "Thank you," he muttered lowly.

Cat took a seat on the settee, neatly placing her plate in her lap. 

Sansa was still in the kitchen.

 "Tea, Petyr?" she called.

 "Mm? Uh, yes," he cleared his throat. He was so nervous. Sansa had honestly never seen him this way before. Even when he was telling her part of his story in the car he had not been this jumpy. Not even when he was standing so thoroughly exposed in front of her. It was almost disconcerting to Sansa how quickly his cool exterior was melting before Cat.  
Twenty years will do that to you, she surmised.

She brought out the tray with the tea on it and placed it on the coffee table in the center of the room. First handing one of the cups to Cat who took it with a soft smile, stopping to brush a free strand of her daughter's hair from her face. The gesture warmed Sansa to the core. Her mother hadn't smiled like that since her father died. (Brandon never made her smile like that).  
With that new found faith Sansa picked up the second cup in the tray and brought it over to Petyr.

 "Here you are Petyr," she smiled. 

 "Thank you, uh, Sansa," he muttered, his gaze not meeting hers.

He took the cup in his free hand (his other still on the clock) and twisted around to find a place to set it down. As he placed the cup down gently on the edge of the mantelpiece his hand slipped off the clock to steady the shaking saucer, knocking the clock off its delicate balance causing it to lean forward off the mantel. 

Sansa went to sit by her mother and sip at her tea, only half-noticing the affair of Petyr and his teacup, but looked up in time to see Petyr turn, smiling as if overcoming a small triumph then returning his hand to the now precariously perched clock. It tilted dangerously then gave way whereupon Petyr turned and caught it, flailing rather ridiculously as he did so, holding it in his trembling hands. He replaced it on the mantel than rather rigidly marched himself over to one of the mismatched chairs, sitting down firmly, crossing one leg over the other and resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

Sansa could tell he was embarrassed over the whole ordeal. Honestly, the air in the room was suffocating. Suffocating and swarming with flowers.

 "I'm sorry about the clock," he muttered sheepishly after a moment.

Sansa almost felt embarrassed for him. Her owns ears were starting to prick with warmth because of how unbearable he was making the entire situation. "It's an old clock," she supplied as an answer, feeling even more idiotic.

Cat sat beside her lightly fingering one of the cakes on her plate. Petyr looked like he wanted to die, just evaporate right then and there. Cat cleared her throat audibly, putting on a kind smile and clasping Sansa's hand.

 "You know, Petyr and I haven't seen each other for years," her voice matter-of-fact, but lilting in its usual musical fashion whenever she tried to steer the conversation a new direction.

 "Twenty years this November," Petyr supplied automatically, and just like that the conversation died once again.

Sansa was at the point of begging for some god out there to cause some sort of freak incident to get them out of this situation. She could fake a heart attack! Would that work?

 "More tea?" She said so sharply and suddenly that Petyr nearly leaped from his chair. 

 "Oh yes, and a lemon cake!" Cat quickly handed her the barely touched cup, gratefully playing into Sansa's ruse of shaking up the unnerving quiet.

 "I'll have one too!" Petyr mumbled.

 "I gave you one," Cat lightly teased. "You know, on the plate," she pointed to where he had left it on the mantelpiece.

Petyr drew his eyes over to his abandoned plate and tried to smile in a sad attempt at a laugh. "So you're right."

He launched to his feet like the chair had caught on fire and grabbed the plate off the mantelpiece and quickly returned to his chair, setting the plate on the side table next to him, again not touching a single crumb.

After settling down next to her mother once again Sansa managed to engage her in a talk about her work at the bond firm and about her garden. The tension in the room seemed to ease off slightly, only maintained by Petyr who had covered himself with a shadow and felt like a single dark cloud in an otherwise sunny afternoon. Sansa couldn't help but feel conscientious of how his eyes moved from her to her mother as they talked; she felt the weird intensity coming from his grey, unhappy eyes.   
After a moment Sansa made a quick excuse to leave the room and got to her feet, prompting Petyr to break out of his intense gaze.

 "Where are you going?" he cried in alarm.

"I'll be back," Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

 "One moment," he got to his feet. "May I have a word with you for just one moment?" He turned to Cat rapidly. "It will just be a moment, I promise," he tried to say as genially as possible before almost forcibly dragging Sansa through the kitchen and into the pantry. 

He closed the door behind them and leaned his head against it. "Oh god," he whimpered miserably.

 "What's the matter?" Sansa grinned, almost laughing when he turned to her with a vicious glare.

 "Were you not out there? Did you not see what I just saw? Were you in a completely different reality where I wasn't stumbling about like a virginal teen?" he groaned and rested his hand on his head, pinching his brow.

 "Oh I was there. I saw all that awkward stumbling about like you described. What happened?" Sansa put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 "This is a terrible mistake," he shook his head wildly. "What am I supposed to say? I thought I knew, I spent twenty years dreaming of this moment and now that it's here I'm pissing it away," he whispered angrily.

 "You're just embarrassed, that's all," Sansa tried to ply him gently. "Cat's embarrassed too."

Oddly enough that seemed to calm him.

 "She is?" He looked at her incredulously. 

Sansa nodded. "Oh yes." Sansa caught herself. "I mean, she's just as embarrassed as you are. She doesn't know what to say, she's waiting for you. So tell her, before I do."

  "Tell her?"

 "That you still love her!"

Petyr clamped his hand around her mouth and shushed her. "Don't talk so loud!"

Sansa swatted him hard enough for her to release her. 

 "You are acting like a little boy," she hissed. That made him tense up a little. "And you're being rude. Cat is out there, she's ready to listen. If she didn't want to listen then she would've left the moment she saw your face. So, I'm going to go tend to my garden, and you're going to go in there and you're going to talk to her." Sansa smacked him in the chest the way Brandon always did to his teammates before a match as a way to pump them up. Petyr recoiled a little at the aggressive gesture. "Do you hear me?" Sansa was about to smack him again when he raised his hand.

 "Alright, alright," he stepped closer to her with a look of sheer determination on his face. His mask was in place. His stare was unforgettable as he moved so close to her space she thought he might kiss her. "What would I do without you, sweetling?"

 "Not break any clocks that's for sure," she teased. 

He wordlessly turned and opened the door cautiously before sucking in a deep breath and walking over to the living room once again.

"Cat," he stood at the arm of the settee, smiling in a way Sansa had never seen him smile before. "May I sit down?"

 "Where's Sansa?" she asked in that light airy manner she did.

 "She went to see to something," he answered, and that was Sansa's cue to duck out the back door to her canopied veranda.

It was unfortunately still raining, though there was some shelter due to the thick covering of vines and willows looming protectively around her little cottage. She took a small pair of clippers out from a bucket near the door and went to tend and trim at her still budding roses.

 "Come on fellas. It'll be winter before you bloom and you'll freeze," she chatted to them amicably as she cut off needless weeds and pokey twigs. The roses stubbornly didn't offer her any response.   
She sighed, chancing a look back at the house. She wondered what Petyr and Cat were discussing. Knowing Petyr he was probably just staring intensely at her, or offering to take her out on his boat. Sansa snickered at that. "Ello Cat, long time no see, wanna go sailing?" Sansa snorted at the idea. 

After all the pruning and weeding she could manage Sansa walked further from the house to the protection of a large tree on the edge of her property that marked the line between her lawn and the hedge of trees that made up the last of the Godswood Forest. It was a thick oak, with a wrapping green canopy surrounding its trunk. From underneath it's umbrella she could see the activity of both her little cottage and Petyr's massive mansion beside it. 

She still couldn't understand how Petyr had managed all of it. The waiting, the emptiness, the hoping, the scheming, the fear that all this careful planning would leave him just as empty handed has before. Sansa couldn't understand how a man could have such patience. 

The rain picked up and dwindled intermittently. Sansa's hair was damp and sticking to the sides of her face. Her grass which had been so pristinely cut this morning by Baelish's gardener had now become a veritable swamp land complete with marshes and bottomless mud pits. There was nothing happening outside either her little home or Baelish's estate so she passed the time admiring the architecture. She had not spent the last few days waiting for this little tea party in idleness. Indeed, after she called her mother to set the date and time for today she immediately called Harry and met him somewhere Petyr couldn't find them and they decided to do some digging. There wasn't much - like the man, most of his life was shrouded in mystery. What she did manage to learn was that a man known as Aldous Baelish, a Braavos-born tradesman, was gifted the land from a wealthy nobleman who was grateful for his service. He had built a one-story rickety wood shack on the property and left it to his son, who in turn left it to his son, Petyr.   
When Petyr returned to the Fingers he had split the land in two, one for the original little house both he and his father had been born in and one for the towering monstrosity he now called home. The little shack had been renovated and upgraded to a small little groundskeepers cottage nestled in the trees. Her little cottage.   
Her landlord was just another employee of Petyr Baelish.   
It seemed the deeper she dug into this mystery the more she found herself rooted inside of it. Petyr truly had been waiting for her to cross his path. She was the catalyst to so many of his plans and she didn't even know it. And now...now that she has fulfilled her end of the bargain...he would have no use for her.

The conclusion sat like a weighted ball of lead in her stomach. She was merely a pawn in this game, a means to an end. She wished she was so much more.

The rain started to dwindle off completely a half an hour later, and the sun started to peek through the clouds. Sansa watched as the maids and staff under Petyr's employ began throwing open the windows to let some of that clean fresh air into his no doubt musty mansion. She ducked out from underneath the tree and waded through the puddles in her lawn back to her garden. It was vibrant green and purple and yellow, highlighted by the glow of the sun on the raindrops falling off their leaves. She was distracted though - wondering about what was going on inside her little home at this very moment. What would happen if she walked in on them right now?

She almost laughed at the rather adolescent image of finding the two of them on her settee like a pair of young teens getting caught by the girls parents, except laughably in reverse. She decided though, that it was a ridiculous notion anyway. She had given them a fair amount of time to talk, so she entered in through the back doors, hoping for the best, but expecting anything the moment she stepped through her threshold. 

There was no screaming or crying, so she took it as a sign things were going well. She could also hear the murmur of voices, which also meant that Petyr hadn't spent the entire time staring at her tensely and making her feel awkward. Even better! 

She decided she would be proactive and quietly clean up some of the disastrous mess that was invading her tiny home due to Petyr's grandiose way of complicating everything. There were a few dishes she could do, and a little bit of sweeping to keep herself occupied. With a nod of her head she set about gently and nimbly taming the chaos Petyr Baelish had inflicted on her poor little abode as quietly and efficiently as she could.

After making every noise possible trying to put to dig the broom out of its closet, she stopped and smacked her palm on to her forehead. She should've stayed outside. They must think she's some kind of brat after making all that racket. Petyr was going to glare daggers at her for ruining his moment. It's not her fault that everything she touches likes to make a resounding clink, clank, or thud! 

She decided it was best to apologize.

 "Sorry, I'm just tidying up a bit," she called to them. "If I'm disturbing you I can leave."

No answer. Odd, considering that all that was separating them was half a wall and a mountain of delicacies. 

 "Mother!" she called. 

Still no answer.

 "Does anyone want more tea?" Now the heat was really starting to settle in behind her ears. They were either ignoring her, or she had pissed them off royally...or - her blush deepened. She should just leave them be, go back outside, possibly drown her embarrassment in the lake. Might as well, Petyr was definitely going to kill her now anyways.

 "Hello!" she tried one more time.

Still no one responded. Now she felt concerned. 

She took the broom with her as she walked into the living room, uncertainty overcoming her fear of disrupting whatever was going on inside. The scene she came across was nothing she could've imagined.  
The first thing she saw was her mother's hand in Petyr's, her face warm and stained with tears. She looked more alive than she had since Ned died - which was amazing in and of itself - but it was Petyr that took her breath away. He had changed in some insurmountable, inscrutable, simply confounding kind of way. He was practically glowing; she didn't even have to see his face to feel the warmth and joy that was radiating off of him and filling the small space.

He was absolutely stunning.

It hurt how stunning he was. It hurt because it wasn't for her. She swallowed it down like one would swallow a large pill. She cleared her throat, alerting the pair to her presence. Immediately Cat jumped, discreetly pulling her hand out of Petyr's and quickly wiping her eyes with the blue and silver handkerchief she kept in her sleeve. 

Petyr moved slowly, contentedly, as if woken from a dream. His head turned in her direction, and his eyes, glazed over and sparkling, drifted towards her. 

 "Oh, Sansa, sweetling," he smiled through the left side of his face. He looked at her as if he hadn't seen her in years. Perhaps he felt as if he hadn't; perhaps he was a completely different man now.

 "The rain has stopped," Sansa said dumbly, feeling dumb standing there, wanting so badly to wrap her arms around that glowing neck of his. 

 "Has it?" his face looked like it took a moment to register the words and their meaning, but when he did - the rays of sun began to twinkle along with the light in his eyes. "Do you hear that, Cat," he turned to her, smiling wildly. "It's stopped raining."

 "Was it raining before?" Cat seemed to laugh and cry at the same time, waving her handkerchief like she were swatting a fairy. Her voice was different though, raw and choked. Alive in her grieving beauty. "I'm glad, Petyr," she smiled joyously.

Petyr suddenly bounded to his feet, sweeping Cat up to hers as well.

 "Come! Come to my house, the pair of you," he beamed brightly. "Let me show you around, let me show you what I've built."

Sansa felt miserable. The more he shined the duller she felt. She felt it was best she just fade away into nothing now, before she fell any harder than she already had. The enigma stood naked before her now, shining like the diamond he was, and it wasn't for her. It would take ten tins of lemon cakes, a bottle of whiskey, and three days holed up under the covers in bed for her to recover from this one. God, she needed a drink.

 "Go on without me, I'll only be in the way."

 "No! You must come too! I need you both," he clasped her hand and her mothers in his. He smiled at her, the way that he does, and there she goes - her heart making decisions her feet don't want to make.

 "I want you both," he turned back to Cat. "To see my home."

 "I've already seen it," Sansa sighs, her heart growing heavy again.

 "Not like this you haven't," he grinned. "Please Sansa."

She looked at him squarely.  "Are you sure you want me to come?" she asked him firmly. She saw his mouth twitch with a small grin.

 "Absolutely, sweetling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sansa. I will say awkward and whiny Petyr amuses me. I enjoy Sansa and Petyr's relationship in this chapter. Next up, some Sansa whumping. Enjoy!


	14. Chapter 14

Cat insisted on using Sansa's bathroom to wash her face before they went over to Petyr's house, leaving Sansa and Petyr to wait for her out on the lawn. Petyr stood on the edge of the beach, staring admiringly at his empire. His whole being could outshine the sun, she thought.

 "It looks grand, doesn't it?" he asked. "My house I mean."

 "I know what you meant," Sansa muttered.

 "She'll like it, won't she?" his eyes never left the house as he spoke. "Why wouldn't she? It's perfect. It's all going to be perfect." He was talking to himself now more than he was talking to her. Sansa could do nothing but wrap her arms about herself.

 "And to think," he laughed, "all the years it took to raise the money to build it."

 "I thought you inherited your father's fortune."

He receded a little into his mask at that. "In part," he muttered. "I wasted most of that fortune trying to run away from her. Your mother."

 "I know."

 "And in the war of course, all my attempts at self destruction...she was everything - is everything. Do you like how the sun hits this side of the house? It almost looks like it's sparkling. We should go sailing. Do you think Cat would want to go sailing?"  
He was babbling at this point. She was sure he had no idea what he was talking about anymore, he just couldn't keep silent, it would be like trying to bottle the sun. He was overflowing yet still trying to keep all his carefully hidden secrets. 

 "Petyr?" Sansa broke through his mindless ramble about his boats. He finally turned to her, a look on his face as if he hadn't realized she was there this whole time. 

 "Hmm? What is it Sansa?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets in a vain attempt to control his nervous excitement.

 "Do you mind if I ask what it is you actually do," he seemed to be confused by the question because he didn't answer right away. "I mean, you've told me your whole life's story, everything to do with my mother and me, you even offered me a job, yet I don't actually know what it is that you do."

 "That is my affair," he snapped before catching himself and swallowing whatever urge had tried to burst forth. She saw him recalculate his response and start again. "I mean, the work that I do is...there is no one word to describe it, I do a lot."

 "Are you an accountant? You said that's what you went to school for," she continued to prod him gently with her question. Why was he being so evasive?

 "That is certainly a part of the work that I do. I own several businesses that offer different services. I used to run a chain of drug stores out of Gulltown before I got into mergers and acquisitions. I don't talk about it much because it is frightfully dull." He laughed slightly, but she could tell he was still holding some of it back. He was being vague again. "Why do you ask?"

Sansa shrugged. "Just curious."

 "Is this because of the job I offered you? Are you re-considering it?" he almost looked hopeful at the revelation which only made her feel all the more wary.

 "Who are your girls, Petyr?" she asked bluntly.

Petyr did not react the way she expected him to. Though he did not respond immediately she didn't see any panic or fear in his expression. If anything he looked as if he knew it was coming. "You've been talking to the Spider," he almost seemed to laugh as he spoke.

 "Yes, and that Tywin fellow. They both asked me if I was one of your girls...and I don't think they thought we were related."

Petyr smirked and stepped off the edge of the sand and came over to her. "Do you really want to know, sweetling?"

 "I think I have a right to, after all I've done for you."

 "You're right, you've done more for me than anyone else in this world ever has," he kept walking slowly towards her as he spoke, stopping just in front of her, and leaning forward until his face was almost unbearably close. "And I will tell you only if you can promise me one thing."

 "And what is that?"

 "That you will still love me when I am no longer beautiful. Can you promise me that?"

Luckily Sansa did not have to answer him as Cat tore out of the house into the sunlight, the buttons on her dress gleaming as she waltzed in between them. Petyr immediately stepped out of the way and took her hand in his, his attention fully grabbed by Cat's whirlwind entrance.   
Sansa was effectively stunned. She had no idea what Petyr meant with those words. They truly didn't feel like actual words, not any that the Petyr she knew (or thought she knew) would say. Did he know? Oh god, did he know how she felt about him. If so then she hated him, because he was teasing her in the most cruel way imaginable - but what if he didn't? Was he playing with her, teasing her, (testing her?) What game was he trying to play? What game has he always been playing with her? It infuriated her that she still couldn't read him as well as she thought. He still had his secrets, and he was always going to be an enigma. 

Sansa heard Cat gasp dramatically. "Is this it?" she pointed up at the house. How could she miss it, it practically blotted out the sky.

 "Do you like it?" Petyr asked softly. He looked so innocent and sweet. It was painful.

 "Petyr, it's amazing," she latched her hands on to his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. "You built all this?"

 "I did," he leant towards her, his cheek resting against the top of her head. "I built it for you."

 "For me," she repeated his words. "It's so huge, how do you manage such a place all by yourself?"

 "I have maids," Peryr laughed and Cat swatted him gently.

 "That's not what I meant," she turned to him, placing her hands gingerly on his chest. "How have you managed to live in this large house all alone all these years?"

 "I don't know," Sansa gaped a little because he truly looked baffled by Cat's question (or perhaps it was her proximity). "I've always kept it full," he answered after a moment. "Full of all kinds of people. Interesting people. Night and day. People who do interesting things." The way he pulled back his poorly concealed smirk made Sansa feel wary. It reminded her of their barely previous conversation. What had he meant then, and what did he mean now? He was infuriating her with his games "Celebrated people," he finished, and something in his eyes changed as one of his hands came to rest over Cat's on his chest. It was then Sansa noticed that Cat's hand was right over his scar (where her hand had been only days before).

 "It still must have been a very lonely life," the emotion in Cat's voice was palpable. 

 "It's all in the past now," he entwined their fingers together and stepped away from her, elegantly sidling around her, guiding her along the ivy covered wall separating the two properties. 

Petyr decided to take them the long route around so that Cat could see the grand entranceway and foyer to his palatial home. (Sansa noted that this route also took her by his grand cream coloured Rolls Royce).

Cat exclaimed loudly, clasping her hands at her mouth in a prayer-like gesture. "Oh Petyr! It's just like we talked about. When we were kids!" Petyr only smiled softly in response. Cat turned to Sansa. "In the Riverlands there was this gorgeous old house by the river, it was owned by an acquaintance of my fathers. The door, the foyer, it was exactly like this. It was my dream house." She stepped further into the inside, taking note of the deep, rich wood paneling, the almost golden and chocolate hues from the floor to the ceiling. The sparking glass chandelier, the marbled pillars, the perfectly polished long mirrors, even the dark emerald of the upholstery. Cat gingerly ran her finger along the immaculate wood, stunned and smiling. "I can't believe you remembered."

 "This was our dream, I knew it was what you always wanted," Petyr took her hand and led her to the adjoining ballroom that held the grand staircase, and all the splendor that was beheld by so many strangers. The curtains were thrust wide open so the bright sun could light the expansive room, highlighting the gold in the varnish on the steps and railings leading up to the great balcony with its deep oak landing and red velvet cushions.   
Sansa stood by the arch that separated foyer from ballroom and deeply debated slipping away now while they weren't paying attention. Not like they would notice her gone anyway, they were quite wrapped up in each other as it is. She turned, ready to head for the door - ready to quietly slip away into her own misery, maybe get a start on returning her house back to normal - when she felt a hand on her arm. She didn't have to turn to know who that hand belonged to. His warmth surrounded her like a pair of arms. It was comforting just as much as it was uncomfortable. 

 "Where are you going?" he tried to sound casual but she could feel the nervous fear shaking in the hand holding her arm.

Sansa sighed, looking over to her mother who was admiring the long colourful tapestries hanging on the wall, then back to him. His green eyes were fixed on her with a desperation she never thought she'd see on him. "Nowhere, I was...I was just going to remove my coat."

The light jacket she had put on before they had left her cottage was a simple pale blue cardigan and came off easy. The sun was quickly warming her and Petyr's house, so removing it and placing it on the little seat by the door was not a hard task to do. She was kicking herself silently as she did so, for not being strong enough to say no to that man. That stupid, bumbling, idiotic, scheming, mystery of a man.

When she returns to the ballroom, Petyr is back at Cat's side, leaning close to her ear, hand ghosting the small of her back as he no doubt told her the story of how he'd acquired that particular tapestry. Sansa was suddenly aware of a third presence coming to stand just behind her.

 "So that's her," Olyver muttered.

 "That's her," Sansa sighed, trying very weakly to hide her disappointment. She didn't need to pretend in front of Olyver, she doubted that he even cared.

 "Older than I imagined," he remarked snidely. Sansa cracked a small smirk. "Never seen him so happy though." Sansa's smile quickly faded. 

Cat laughed at some unknown remark from Petyr. He had wrapped his arms around her, whispering into hair as she leaned the back of her head against his chest.

 "Except when you're around, of course," Olyver finished with what almost sounded like affection. She turned to him, a question on her tongue, but he had darted off to the veranda doors, opening them wide, as if on cue.

Cat gasped and followed the trails of sunlight on to the coral pink and burnt brick ivy-covered veranda. The pool glittered as blue and clear as a diamond. The gardeners were trimming the hedges of the small maze at the forefront of his property, and a seagull cawed as it flew over the golden beach.

 "It's like it's out of a dream," Cat gasped.

 "Wait till you see it when it is full of people, and music, and dancing!"

 "I want to dance with you right here!" Cat shouted excitedly, pulling Petyr to her. "Under the moonlight, like we used to dance when we were young."

 "We can do that," Petyr took her hand in his and dramatically spun her around, sashaying playfully. 

 "I meant to music," she swatted him with an airy laugh. "At one of your grand parties where everyone can see us!"

 "That can be arranged," he smiled widely. 

"Besides, I want to dance with my daughter now," she turned to Sansa. "Sansa, would you dance with me?" Cat held out her hand towards her, beckoning her with wide Tully-blue eyes.

Sansa stayed by the door, her arms crossed. "There's no music," she said humourlessly.

 "Petyr, you can sing, sing us something to dance to," Cat ordered with a flick of her delicately gloved hand.

 "I haven't sung in a long time," Petyr said almost bashfully. "I wouldn't trust my voice to carry a tune as well as it used to."

 "Shame," Cat's face did hold a genuine sadness as she cupped his chin. "A real shame. He had such a singing voice when we were children. He was part of the choir in the Riverlands."

 "Church choir," he corrected.

 "He had the most beautiful little falsetto," Cat continued as if he had said nothing.

 "Mediocre at best," Petyr shook his head. 

"A voice that would bring tears to my father's eyes, it was that beautiful," Cat placed a hand over heart as she spoke.

 "Tears of pain, not joy," Petyr continued to break down the beautiful altar boy image Cat was trying to conjure up of him.

"Oh you," Cat swatted him once again. "Don't listen to him. He's a chronic liar. He can't help it, he'd think he was boring otherwise." Petyr didn't respond, but his smile seemed to weaken a little. Cat spun around to him as if swept up by some grand notion. "Are we just going to stand here looking doe-eyed or are you going to give me the rest of the tour?" She took him by the arm before he could come up with the perfect answer. "I want to see everything. I want to know everything. Show me all that I've missed these past twenty years, Petyr!"

He could not say no to her, and quickly guided her up the grande staircase to the second floor landing. Through his intricate and dazzling parlour, sitting rooms worthy of royalty, bedrooms of Myrish lace, and delicately woven brocade. Bathrooms that glinted with gold, ivory and porcelain the purest white that Sansa had ever seen.   
The tour was a true sight to behold. Sansa never realized just how many rooms of different varieties were in this house. There was no end. Petyr would take them through one door an lead them into a room where there was another door and another room and so on and so forth. Each room was different and seemed to have from another world entirely. There were Restoration salons, with glittering gold chairs and large Eastern handwoven capers from Meereen. A music room with a beautiful antique grand piano, and a gold-painted fireplace etched with cherubs, and pristine carved angels. Petyr looked as unnatural in these rooms as Sansa felt. She doubted he ever used them. They were there for style; for show. It was more of a museum than an actual house. It wasn't until he took them to his library - a collection to rival the Red Keep and any modern university - that Sansa really got a sense of Petyr's world in this house. Books varying from large scientific manuals and encyclopedias to penny dreadful novellas and poetry anthologies. Finally a room with some life in it. Sansa could smell the hours he had toiled away in here. Comforted in his solace, alone and together with the wisdom and escape of the worlds and words locked behind each cover and page.

Cat took one look around, not seeing anything worth her interest (she hadn't picked up a book since Ned died) and turned to Petyr. "What's next? Your treasure trove? The dungeon? Do you have a small country hidden in one of these rooms?" 

Petyr laughed. "No, but there is more."

Sansa had to use all her willpower to say goodbye to all the beautiful books to follow the two of them past more period style bedrooms swarming with rose and lavender silk; dressing rooms with wall to wall mirrors; poolrooms, studies, smoking rooms, and a bathhouse lined with sunken tubs that steamed suffocatingly, creating an unbearably dense fog. To Sansa's embarrassment she noticed that there was a man, half-naked sitting in one of the baths with a bag of ice over his head.

 "Who's that?" Cat whispered to Petyr.

 "Only my boarder," Petyr waved him off, closing the doors to give the poor man some privacy. "In between jobs, a little down on his luck, I'm helping him to get back on his feet."

 "Dontos?" Sansa blurted out.

Petyr looked in a strange way. "Yes, that is his name. I wasn't aware you knew each other."

 "We don't, I only met him at your party once, he vaguely mentioned something about you offering to let him stay here...he obviously took you up on that offer."

 "Only for a few days or so, is what he says," Petyr had a look in his eyes that told Sansa there was more to the story. It was that same sadness she felt the first time she had came into contact with the portly red-faced man. 

In a second Petyr brightened up again, swinging Cat towards him. She shrieked in delight. "What do you think so far?" he asked cheekily. 

Cat swatted him playfully. "Petyr! What do I think? Of course it's marvellous! You have antique tapestries hanging on the walls, and actual gold leaf on the crown moulding, what am I supposed to think?"

 "Do you like it?" She swatted him again. He laughed bashfully."I'm sorry, I just wanted everything to be perfect."

 "It is perfect. It's beyond perfect. It's beyond anything I could have ever dreamed."

 "Only the best," he grinned. "Everything you see was hand picked. Lace from Dorne, silk from Lys, varnished wood from the Iron Islands."

 "Tell me more," Cat launched up another staircase. 

"Every morning I have fresh fruit delivered by the truckload," he chased her up the stairs, his hands lighting on her waist.

 "What do you do with so much fruit?" Cat beamed playfully, as if the two of them were in some sort of romantic play.

 "Anything I want, anything you want," he cupped her face gently in his hands. "I would have servants make hand squeezed juice by the jug for your breakfast."

 "And wine for dinner!" Cat laughed. The sound was like wind chimes.   
The brighter the two of the became the duller and greyer Sansa felt. 

 "I have contacts in Braavos that could send me yards of the finest fabrics from East to West to make you anything you desired. A personal seamstress to make you a dress of pure gold silk."

 "Would I be able to dance in it?"

 "The world would move under your feet if you did not."

He scooped her up in his arms and lifted her up in the air, causing her to shriek loudly and wrap her arms around his neck. 

 "Could we be young again?" Cat asked, her hands found Petyr's hair, still in his arms.

 "Yes," he said huskily after a moment. "And more. We could turn back time!"

Cat finally leaned down and kissed him on the lips, only lightly, but it was a kiss Sansa could feel in her gut. She could hear the air leaving Petyr's lungs as their lips met; the warmth that radiated from his chest. How long had he waited for that kiss?

 "I would love that," Cat choked out a smile, her fingers gently grazed over the grey at his temples.

Sansa felt sick watching them. Her heart had dropped so low that it was now sitting in her stomach. This was torture; dragging her along, making her witness to their reclaimed love story when all she wanted to do was go back home and crawl into bed and hide under the covers until the thought of him being with her mother stopped hurting. The worst part is that she couldn't even justify her feelings to herself. Who was she to be jealous, she barely known him for a few weeks, let alone felt this way about him for that long. Their love story was a tale for the ages. A childhood romance, broken and split apart by circumstances and time, brought together by determination and a sheer force of will. This is what stories were made of - and truly, they made each other happy, happier than either have been for a long time. Cat was the love of his life, not her - Olyver was only being kind to a clearly upset, obviously heartsick girl; she never made him smile like that. She felt a tear beginning to form in the corner of her eye and she moved quickly to hide it, sucking back all her sadness. There was no use in it, she would cry later when she was alone and no one could see her.

When she turned around she saw her mother disappear up the staircase and Petyr descending towards her. She was confused but she remained stoic as he approached, his face etched with what looked like concern. "Are you ok, sweetling? You've been awful quiet?"

 "I'm fine, just...letting you two have your moment," she tried to say nonchalantly.

 "Sansa..."

 "Should I leave? I feel like a third wheel, honestly I should...should let you two continue to...catch up."

 "You can't," he clasped her arm frantically, holding firm. "Not yet."

 "Why Petyr?" Sansa sighed, infuriated now. "What possible use could you have for me now? You have everything you ever wanted, what could you possibly want with me? A chauffeur? If you need that I can guarantee Olyver is more qualified than me."

 "I don't need Olyver, I need you," she said earnestly, eyes boring into hers. That's when she saw it. The boy - the one he used to be years ago - staring at her with fear set in his grey-green eyes. He was afraid...of what? That the moment she left so would this waking dream? Did he think he was dreaming right now and her presence was the only thing grounding him to reality?

 "Just...one more room, please sweetling," he asked softly. "I can't do this without you."

Sansa bit her lip. He really was killing her. It would be easier if he practically forgot she was there, then she could slip away into her dark cloud of uselessness without having to subject herself to longing for a man pining after her mother. "Ok," she heard herself say, let her hand slip into his; let him lead her up the staircase to what inevitably turned out to be his bedroom. It was a large room, though relatively simple compared to the rest of the house. There was a small balcony overlooking the bay, a king-sized bed in the centre; and a large walk-in closet filled wall to wall with shirts and suits of any colour and style you could think of. He had a simple dresser made of dark maple, filled with ties and neatly pressed socks of various colours as well. There was a toilet set on the top- made of pure dull gold, as well as a simple bottle, unmarked, that was a deep forest green. His bed looked untouched; the pillows a crisp and pristine white. Sansa balked that she had never stepped foot in this room. She'd really only ever been in his ball room and the first floor enclave during his parties, plus the one time she had climbed every staircase up to the very top where his true Sanctuary was. She prided herself on the knowledge that she had stepped foot in that sacred ground before anyone else had. 

Cat was standing in front of the vanity holding Petyr's golden hairbrush in her hands, lightly brushing her hair and humming to herself. Petyr was transfixed; staring at her with open awe in his features. Sansa herself felt entranced by the sight. It was like seeing her true mother after years of absence, like Petyr had been keeping her hidden here all this time. She combed the ends of her long red hair out and they curled naturally around her chest. She swayed to the song she was humming, lost in her own world. Petyr sat at the edge of his bed, and held a hand to his mouth in a vain attempt to cover up his awe. Suddenly he started to laugh.

 "It's the funniest thing sweetling," his eyes sparkled brighter than ever. "I can't - when I try to --"

He needn't say more. She understood. All her feelings of pain and sadness had momentarily lapsed, seeing her mother standing there alive and vivacious, so much the woman she was when Ned was alive. Sansa remembered how Cat would brush her hair, and hum, and braid, and stick flowers in between the braids and call her a princess. There was a time she would have done anything to have that mother back and here she was.  Sansa couldn't imagine what it must've been like for Petyr. He had harboured this idea for so long, dreamt it into existence, everything to the last detail, waited patiently with his teeth set, knuckled white with anticipation, and just like that here she was, in his room, using his brush, admiring his things.  
Sansa could've laughed. There were times during the tour of the house she could see Petyr revaluing his possessions due to Cat's response to them. She half-expected the library to be overhauled into a dance hall by tomorrow judging by how quickly Cat had lost interest. He would tear down this house and rebuild it anew if she asked.

 "Petyr!" Cat gasped. "How many shirts do you own?" she laughed. She had dropped the brush on the vanity and was now halfway in his massive closet. Petyr launched to his feet and joined her, clicking a button on the wall that caused the entire line of shirts to rotate. 

 "I have a man who purchases me shirts and suits at the start of every season and sends them to me," Petyr grinned proudly, pulling down a light blue shirt and tossing it at Cat playfully. "I have silk shirts, cotton, wool, in every style for every occasion...and suits too." He tossed another shirt at Sansa. It was crisp and starched and smelt purely of him. She brought it close to her face and inhaled. Cat practically buried her face in the shirt in her hands. Petyr laughed slightly until he saw her shoulders shake, then the smile instantly faded into concern.

 "Cat?"

Her face lifted and Sansa could see the wetness of tears on her cheek and the stains on the shirt. "I'm sorry Petyr," she choked and sobbed. "It's such a lovely shirt. I've never seen such beautiful shirts. I've ruined this one."

Petyr was before her in a heart beat, taking the shirt from her hands and tossing it to the floor. "It doesn't matter, I'll get more, I'll get a hundred more and you can cry on the lot of them for all I care." His hands gently lighted on her arms and she fell against his chest in tears. "I don't understand. Do you not like it? Did I say something or do something--"

 "No!" she cupped his face. "No, you did nothing wrong, you have never done anything wrong Petyr. It's beautiful, it's all perfect really. It's me."

 "You?" Petyr caressed her face, keeping her hair out of her wet cheeks. "What could you have done?"

 "I hurt you, Petyr. I left you all alone for all these years," she placed her hand on his chest, over his scar. "You did all this for me and I abandoned you."

Petyr pulled her closer to him. "It doesn't matter now, Cat. None of it. It's in the past now, left to dust, only talking about it will bring it back, and we don't have to." He kissed her, softly. "We've been given this chance to...to be together now, that's all that matters." He kissed her again, passionately now, crushing her to him. Cat responded, throwing her arms around him. They pulled away after a moment, foreheads touching and eyes closed, breathing in each other. Cat nodded against him, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

 "Yes. Okay," she whispered against him.

 "Yes?" Petyr's eyes opened wide.

 "Yes, Petyr," Cat smiled at him, her face glowing as she took his head in her hands and kissed him. His arms wrapped around her in absolute glee, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in the air. Cat laughed against his lips. 

 "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," he whispered against her temple, kissing that spot, then her cheek, then over each of her eyelids with such adoration Sansa could've just died. 

A crack of thunder drew the three of them from the closet to the window. Unbeknownst to them it had started to rain again, and now it was torrential; a thick sheet of rain, nearly blanketing the view of the beach. The three of them stood at the window all in a row, Cat's head on Petyr's shoulder, and her arm woven through his and around his back in a comforting embrace. 

 "If it's wasn't for the rain we could see your house from here," Petyr muttered, his gaze far off, and his mind even more distant. "On a clear night I can see the green light at the end of your dock. It burns all night...I always felt it was burning for me."

Cat's arm tightened around Petyr's waist and he suddenly looked like he had been struck with a hard realization. That light that had held such colossal significance before was now nothing more than a light at the end of a dock. It had truly beckoned him, as Sansa had thought that first night when she saw him reaching his hand towards it. Being separated from Cat for so long that light must've looked so close, so within his grasp - then like a well crafted puzzle all the pieces fell into place. Sansa being the crucial catalyst for his plans to at last be reunited with the woman he had loved since boyhood.

He had everything he ever wanted now. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muahahaha...I mean *ahem*  
> I apologize to all the creepy shippers out there. This chapter will hurt for our dear Sansa, I can feel your pain!!!   
> \-- It's delicious :P
> 
> Don't worry, your moment will come!! Have faith, my creepies! But first, just a little more Sansa whumping, I cannot guarantee it will hurt less.
> 
> Muahahaha!!! (Again, I apologize -- sorry.)


	15. Chapter 15

Sansa couldn't really say how she ended up where she was now.

They were in one of Petyr's studies, a brightly lit room, Sansa had been in before (that day he took her flying an eternity ago.). He had poured warm brown bourbon into tumblers for Sansa and himself, and a gin and tonic for Cat, carefully crushing mint and swirls of lime rind into the tall glass.

Cat found the gramophone, her fingers grazing over the marvellous machine in absolute awe. She perused his collection of records, looking for the perfect one to set the mood she was in. Her focus was as intense as a businessman looking over a contract. She eventually chose a soft jazz album of some unknown band. The murmur or the clarinets and the booze-soaked swing of the trumpets was to the ears what bourbon was to the chest.

Sansa was quickly downing the two fingers worth of booze in her glass, feeling somewhat soothed by the alcoholic burn down her spine. She decided the only way she could make it through this day was by getting drunk, so she reached for the decanter, earning her an amused smirk from Petyr.

 "Another, sweetling?" he asked teasingly.

 "Another," she said matter-of-factly, handing him the tumbler humourlessly. He did not comply with her wishes though, instead putting the glass down and taking her hand instead, pulling her into a light sway to the music. Sansa groaned, still wishing to crawl underneath a rock with the decanter of bourbon.

 "Are you upset with me, sweetling?" Petyr whispered into her ear.

 "I am completely happy for you, Petyr," she said with a slight roll of her eyes.

 "You're a terrible liar," he grinned against the side of her face.

 "Should I be calling you daddy now?" Sansa shot back.

Petyr laughed. "Heavens!" he laughed some more. "No, I don't think so, sweetling."

 "Promise me one thing Petyr," Sansa said firmly.

 "Anything, you have my word," he answered just as earnestly.

 "Promise me this isn't just a game...or revenge?"

 "Revenge?" he pulled away slightly to look at her face to face.

 "I know what Brandon did to you, and by no means is he a great man, but...but he was good to my mother and my siblings for a time - he has tried to be a good father and husband. Just...don't hurt him more than you have to, ok?"

Petyr's eyes steeled, his face devoid of emotion for the longest time as he contemplated his answer. "Alright, I promise," he said lowly, a weak smile on his face.

 "And no more secrets," she added.

 "From you or your mother?" his eyes sparkled with amusement once again.

 "I would like to think you wouldn't lie to me, but since I don't seem to matter anymore..."

 "Sweetling..."

 "Don't lie to her Petyr," Sansa said firmly. "You tell her everything, and everything you can't tell her you get rid of right now. Your businesses, your girls, all of it. No affairs, no secret lovers, or hidden families, or surprise children. This is your second chance, so cherish it because I promise you Petyr if you upset her in any way you will not get another." With that she kissed him lightly on the cheek and pushed him away, heading straight back to the decanter.

Cat had wandered out onto the balcony sometime before they started dancing. The rain once again quieting down to a light mist. The sky was cloudless and clear.  
Petyr stood still, where she had left him, watching her with what almost seemed like a sense of pride. "You have my word, Sansa," he said in a husky voice. "I will never tell a lie...to your mother - or to you."

 "Petyr!" Cat called from the balcony.

His head turned at the sound. "Coming!" He turned back to her. "What you think of me does matter, more than anything sweetling."

 "Then you have nothing to worry about," Sansa raised her drink to him. "I hold you in the highest regard."

 "Petyr! Come see this!" Cat called again.

 "Go," Sansa took a sip of her bourbon - his sat on the bar where he left it untouched. "I'll be here."

Petyr smiled, a soft, real smile that did nothing but cut a tiny hole within her. At least now she knew where she stood with him. Some pseudo-daughter/friend/conscience or something like that which made her feel less of his equal and more like a fairy. It was nothing more bourbon couldn't solve. She took her glass (and his glass too) and sat down miserably on the settee, preparing herself for a long haul of booze-tinged numbness.

Petyr and Cat returned quietly. "I was thinking about taking the Merlin King out again one of these days, you should invite Harry, come out with us."

 "You've been spending time with Harry," Cat said in that sing-song voice she had when she felt particularly cheeky. She quickly sat beside Sansa, taking her hands into hers. "Tell me everything!"

 "We're just friends," she gave a side-long glare at Petyr for spilling the beans about her and Harry. He didn't do anything but grin back, assuming his seat in a large chair.

 "Still I think you should bring him, it would be fun, like a double date!" Cat clapped her hands together in pure delight. Sansa had to suppress a groan. "Go on, invite him...as a friend if you must," she winked at Sansa with a knowing smile. Sansa felt her ears grow hot and she ducked her face into the tumbler of bourbon.

 "That's a great idea, but here's a better one," Petyr sat up a little. "Why don't you all come to my party this weekend."

 "Petyr! How marvellous!" Cat beamed, then dulled. "Brandon would never let me go, he hates you, you know."

Petyr smiled but Sansa could see the way his hand tightened around the arm of the chair. "I'm aware," he said through his teeth.

 "I might be able to convince him to come, he has no idea about this," Cat took Sansa's hand and squeezed.

Petyr looked even more tense. "Might be risky," he muttered.

Cat immediately swept up to her feet, gliding over to Petyr, her arms thrown around his neck as she perched on his lap. "I don't care, it's worth the risk, I have to see you again, I don't want to waste another moment" she leant down and gave him a soft peck on the lips.

Petyr's arms came to her side and the underside of her jawline. "It's a large party," Petyr grinned. "Easy for one to get lost in the crowd."

 "And everyone looks the same," Cat added, pressing her forehead against his.

 "He could get lost for hours," Petyr smirked.

 "Or days!" Cat laughed, kissing him conspiratorially.

Luckily, the phone rang, breaking them from their embrace. Petyr shot his head up, his eyes turning to steel in an instant. Olyver entered, coughing lightly. "The phone, sir," he said courteously.

 "I heard. Who is it?" Petyr asked pointedly.

 "It's...Lys, sir."

The hesitation in Olyver's voice caught Sansa's curiosity. She had two distinct feeling Lys was code for something completely different than the bustling metropolis Petyr wanted everyone to think it was.

 "Fine," Petyr said tightly, turning back to Sansa and Cat. "I won't be a moment."

Cat waved him off absently, sipping at her mojito and changing the record on the gramophone. The music changed from the slow rhythmic jazz to an more upbeat swing which Cat lightly bopped around to. Sansa was deaf to her mother and her music as she followed Petyr into the adjoining room where he stood crouched over the receiver, speaking lowly.

 "You can't call me now," he said in a hushed voice. "It's...it's not a good time....I'm busy, I have an important client waiting for me....no...no of course not."

Sansa watched him in the shadow of the doorway. Listening to every word he uttered to the mysterious person on the other end of the phone. It was curious to see him in such a state. Sansa thought she had seen the gambit of Petyr's emotions today but here he was showing yet another crack in his perfect mask. The way his fist clenched, the way he spoke with little feeling, the way his whole body strained, the way his hand came up to the nape of his neck and rubbed hard and slow. Whoever was on the other end of the phone...it was not a pleasant conversation for him, to say the least.

 "Just give me some more time...please, then everything will be as it should be...I know...I know what she said, what she asked...this has nothing to do with her." His fist was clenched so hard the knuckles had turned white. "Yes...just a little longer, dear. I promise...I know...I remember...just like it was yesterday..."

The tone he spoke in was frightening. Sansa couldn't explain it. It was darker than any voice she'd ever heard. The lack of feeling, his fingers gently gliding over an object on the desk, adjusting it's position in minute increments. It was his controlling mechanism, she realized. To adjust the world around him, to control himself.

 "I will call you, I promise, goodbye, please...goodbye," he slammed the receiver down and breathed out a long sigh. His hand smoothed back his hair and he rotated his shoulders, shaking off the weight that the unknown entity on the other end of that phone call had undoubtedly placed. He shook them off like they were mud.  
Once composed to his liking he turned and froze, seeing Sansa staring from the doorway at him. She knew what he saw; she wanted him to see. The threat in her eyes.

 "It'll be handled, Sansa," he said lowly, that darkness returning. "It will be ended."

Something about that tone he took when speaking, however vaguely about the mysterious person on the other line - told Sansa that he was being earnest. This must be one of the "unsavoury" dealings he had to contend with and looked very eager to be rid of.  
Sansa didn't respond though. Maintaining her power she turned and went back into the parlour to pour herself another drink.  
The Petyr that followed was not the Petyr she had faced in that little adjoining alcove. He came back, a spring in his step, his eyes shining as he went over to Cat, and caught her off guard by wrapping his arms around her middle.

 "Did you miss me?" he asked in a boyishly innocent voice. Cat giggled, turning around to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

 "Indubitably, my darling!" she cried dramatically, flinging her arms around his neck.

As the two of them, lost in each other once again, began to lightly sway to the music - Sansa, now equipped with her fourth glass of bourbon, began to walk around the room, examining various indefinite objects that were strategically scattered about the place. There was a ceramic dog paperweight sitting on a shelf with a large conch shell, and a large picture of an older woman, standing elegantly on the bow of a yacht, a martini in her hand.

 "Petyr?" she called. "Who is this?"

Cat, more intrigued than Petyr, instantly left his embrace and gracefully scampered over. "Ooh let me see!" she cried, placing her mojito down on the table before swiping the frame off its perch. "Oh, she's lovely."

 "Her?" Petyr said hesitantly. "That would be Lady Olenna Tyrell. An heiress, and inscrutable business woman. We're out of contact now, but she had been the closest thing to a true friend of mine years ago. She helped me when I was in a great time of need, and was the stepping stone to me repairing my fortunes."

 "Oh, look!" Cat exclaimed, going over to the bureau in the corner of the room. "It's you!"

It was indeed a picture of Petyr, very young, no more than eighteen, standing on a dock with his hand leaning on the side of what looked to be the Merlin King on her maiden voyage.

 "I adore it!" Cat cried, clutching the picture to her breast. "My little sailor." Petyr ducked his head bashfully. "The little shorts! You never told me you wore little shorts...or that you were a sailor."

Petyr took the frame gently from her hands and led her away from it to another area of the room. "You might enjoy this even more," he reached up on a bookshelf and took down a large dusty album.

Cat almost seemed to shake with excitement. "Oh is it really!"

 "Yes! Our childhood," Petyr said in a goofy manner. Cat squealed with delight, practically ripping it from his hands.

 "Oh! You kept all these pictures," she laughed. "Oh look! This was the first photo we ever took together. It was so hot and daddy made us sit out in the sun with our suits and frocks. Look how miserable Edmure was." Petyr smiled at one corner of his mouth as Cat reminisced. "You were so cute, look at him Sansa, eight years old, barely came up to my shoulders," she showed the picture to Sansa, pointing out the tiny little Petyr, in his little black suit and high white socks, standing beside a beautifully dressed little Cat and her flowery, frilly dress, out shining everyone in the frame. "You held my hand the entire time," Cat lifted a hand to caress Petyr's face. "You were my best friend then, Petyr."

Petyr's eyes flashed grey for a brief moment, his face momentarily unreadable. Cat didn't notice, but Sansa did. Sansa couldn't help but watch the flicker of sadness cross his face.

 "There are some old clippings of you too," he change the subject, his face once again slipping behind the mask of geniality.

 "Ooh! The time I was crowned Summer Queen at the Riverland Ball?" she began flipping through the album frantically.

 "Not that one."

 "Best dressed at the opening day races? You should've seen me Sansa."

 "No, not that one."

Cat suddenly stopped, her smile leaving her as she came across the clipping he had mentioned. It was the annoucement of her wedding to Ned Stark. A picture of them, her in her dress, Ned in his suit, the rice being thrown over their heads as they left the church. Cat turned to stone, as blank and hard as white marble.

 "I kept all the clippings of you," Petyr said softly. "All of them, everyone I came across. I thought...I thought I'd be closer to you if I did."

Cat didn't look at him. She didn't even breath, only continued to stare at the old newspaper clipping in her stoney state. "Well," she said after a moment. "Rather morbid of you Petyr," she muttered, suddenly closing the album. "Wow, would you look at that," she suddenly perked up, going to the window. "Oh Sansa, come here quick!"

Sansa looked over at Petyr who still sat crouched over the album where Cat had tossed it aside on the couch, his hand lightly dragging across the cover. It had not been the response he had hoped for, she surmised.  
Sansa didn't know whether to go to him or to Cat. She decided, perhaps against her better judgement to leave him on his own for a moment. To recalculate his strategy, or to simply piece his mask back together. She joined her mother at the window, allowing for Cat to wrap her arms around her shoulders. It was still damp, lightly misting, but the clouds had begun to clear, and directly in the west, there was a pink and golden billow of clouds over the sea.

 "Look at it, Sansa," she whispered in her ear. "If I could take one of those pink clouds from the sky, I would take the fluffiest cloud and put you in it, and push you around." Cat laughed airily, lightly hugging Sansa to her as the warm glow of the sun fell upon their faces.

By the time Sansa was able to extricate herself from her mother's grip Petyr had managed to collect himself and the album was put away; to be forgotten.

 "What shall we do now, Petyr?" Cat beamed at him, the whole incident with the newspaper clipping a forgotten blip on an otherwise perfect afternoon.

 "I know!" he snapped his fingers. "We'll have Dontos play the piano!"

Before either Sansa or Cat could protest, he ran out of the room, returning in mere moments, with a rather pink-faced Dontos, now, graciously, clothed in a clean blue polo and tan slacks.

 "Oh dear!" Cat sighed. "We didn't interrupt your exercises did we?"

Poor Dontos turned even more red, and sputtered slightly, trying to find words. "I was asleep," he said after a moment of flummoxed blustering. "That is, I'd been asleep. Then I got up..."

 "Dontos here, plays the piano," Petyr patted the poor little round man on the back.

 "I don't really...not that well, it's been a while, I'm all out of prac-"

 "My grand piano is downstairs. This room is getting way too stuffy as it is," Petyr interjected.

 "I couldn't agree with you more," Cat floated towards him, taking his hands in hers and bestowing him with a light kiss. Petyr seemed to glow a little bit at the gesture, momentarily flustered, but soon composing himself.

 "Shall we adjourn downstairs?" Cat nodded, not losing contact with him as she twirled around him and led him out the door onto the second floor landing to mouth of the grand staircase leading to the ballroom where the grand piano lay in waiting. "Come on Dontos!" Petyr called.

The poor man turned red, and blustered about some more before turning on his heels and bashfully following behind.  
Sansa took the opportunity to pour herself one last glass, grateful for the momentary silence. She was finally able to breathe a little, now that Petyr was out of the room.  
What was she going to do? She scoffed at herself. Hopelessly and furiously in lo- she couldn't even think the words - and to see him...see the way he dotes on her, hangs off her every word. Even when she slammed that album in his face, all that meticulously put together history, their history. It was important to him, but Cat didn't want to think about it, Cat never wanted to think deeply about anything anymore. It made Sansa's blood boil.  
She knocked back her drink in one gulp, swallowing it with a hiss and replacing the tumbler on to the tray. Readying herself once more to be the unaffected observer, to the fulfillment of Petyr's dreams.

They were in the ballroom, the piano opened up, with poor Dontos sitting at its helm, looking terribly distraught.

 "See, it's not very good," he flubbered all over the keys, his face as red as a tomato. "I told you I couldn't play. I haven't played in years, I've lost the knack for it."

Cat giggled, pulling Petyr into a light sway with the music, her arms wrapped around his middle. "Don't talk so much, Dontos, you're playing fine!" Petyr tried to be encouraging though he was rightfully a little distracted.

 "I don't remember the words."

 "Don't sing, just play!" Petyr twirled Cat around and she laughed, falling back into his arms.

 "Oh, I'll forget a note somewhere, I know it!"

 "Play!" Petyr commanded, his voice booming in the open room. Dontos shuddered but quietly resumed playing a little love ditty on the piano. Quite well, in fact.

 "It's sounds lovely Dontos," Sansa piped up, with a kind smile. Petyr was too invested in the way Cat danced so close to him to be too wary of the little man's feelings.

 "You're too kind, Miss," Dontos gave her a weak smile, puffing up his chest to gather enough strength to continue to play, even to lightly trill out a verse or two. He sang quite sweetly though he was not confident in it at all.

 "Ugh, I'm tired," Cat sad woefully, pulling out of Petyr's arms. "What a day! I am absolutely exhausted." She went over to Sansa, cupping her face. "My favourite girl," she whispered to Sansa. "My sweet little dove, I am so happy, to be here with you...and with you." She turned to Petyr. "I can't tell you how happy this day has made me. I never want it to end."

 "It doesn't have to," Petyr said softly. He was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand cupping her face in the most loving of caresses. "I can make you happy, Cat, I will devote my life to it."  
She leant forward and threw her arms around his shoulders, kissing him like a young girl falling in love for the first time. He caught her, hoisting her off the ground and carrying her in his arms, the kiss never breaking as he slowly carried her to the brown leather settee in the room. He sat down and she curled into his lap, her head resting on his chest.

Dontos continued to play. Outside the clouds had grown dark again, with threats of thunder on the horizon. Sansa went up to the window and watched as a big black cloud cloud swirled and swelled closer and nearer, aiming to swallow them up. Yet, looking over at Petyr and her dear mother - the one she was starting to recognize after all these years - it was as if the outside world couldn't touch them. Nothing could reach them, they were perfectly safe in the world Petyr has constructed for them. Petyr sat with her in his arms, her hand resting over his chest as the music played sweetly through the empty ballroom. His face had changed though, the final crack. She could see him now, the boy from the photograph...but even then he'd changed. He almost looked perplexed.  
Of course, this day had been different than he imagined, Cat was not the same girl he fell in love with twenty years ago, and he was not the same boy. He was slowly adjusting and adapting to his new reality, giving up certain fantasies he'd held on to, recalculating his next step to meet Cat where she was. He was happy, unbelievably happy, that out of all the scenarios he must've played out in his head, this is the one fate graciously doled out for him, after years of waiting and longing. Cat could never live up to his fantasy, it was too big, too wondrous, dreamt upon too frequently for any sort of reality to ever match it, but that didn't stop Petyr from smiling wide when she nuzzled his chest and placing a kiss to the side of her hair, deeply inhaling her scent. His eyes closed, and he looked at peace. For once, he was not worrying about what do do or say next, he was just there, sitting with the girl of his dreams, asking nothing and expecting nothing, and receiving everything.

Sansa was thoroughly forgotten now. Her heart was so heavy she was sure it would drop like ripe fruit from a tree, all the way to the soles of her feet, and farther, until it had fallen so far she could have no hope of reclaiming it back.

She felt exhausted, weary, or perhaps just depressed, or maybe she shouldn't have had that last glass of bourbon. With quiet footfalls she turned and walked right out of the ballroom into the foyer, grabbing her jacket from where she had draped it on the bench.  
With one last look over to Petyr, she saw his eyes drift up towards her, e stared at her for a long time and de stared back. "Don't you hurt her, Petyr Baelish," she thought as sharp and as clear as a dagger. "Because if you do, I will kill you."  
He seemed to understand and nodded his head in acquiescence.

With that she turned and walked out of the sparkling gold mansion, through the sprinkling of rain, through the ivy wall separating their two homes, now separating their two lives, through the garden where her roses remained unbloomed, their heads mimicking the feeling of her own sadness - into the safe confines of her little cottage.  
At least she thought so until she realized it was irreparably changed as well. Everything, her whole life, now had Petyr's fingerprints on it.  
She was a little glass doll, lovingly kept in a little dollhouse, to be played with at a child's will. She realized she always has been. Passed around from one owner to the next. First it was Ned, then it was Cat, then Joffrey, then Brandon, then Harry and now Petyr. She had only ever been a little glass doll, too beautiful to tarnish, too delicate to hold, so she was soon abandoned for something real, with bones that were not so fragile. Someone that could withstand the strength of their love.

In all her years, she had to admit, through all her handlers, with Petyr, she had never felt so used.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, the Gatsby Party from HELL!!


	16. Chapter 16

 A fortnight passes uneventfully.

Sansa sees very little of Petyr aside from the usual comings and goings of the Baelish estate. As per their agreement, Sansa spends most of her time with Harry - going for walks down the beach, drives through the countryside, even going so far as travelling to his hometown of Gull Town to try and ingratiate herself to his senile Great Aunt (his only living relative). Cat visits Petyr four times - each time driving down early in the morning and leaving in the early evening to get back home in time to have dinner with Brandon in their empty house.

If Brandon suspects anything he doesn't say a word and shows nothing in his demeanour. He continues to laugh loudly at his own stories, and refuses to take any calls - no matter how urgent - at the dinner table.

Sansa doesn't hear anything from Lysa either, to her relief. The dinners at the Stark household were awkward enough. What with Brandon's raucous laughter, and Cat's preening.

  "I knew you two would get on, I just knew it."

Sansa and Harry don't spend too many nights together either, not romantically anyways. He drives her home most nights, they laugh and drink tea in her garden, and they kiss quite frequently. He even helps her with some of the more domestic chores around her little house. One day, he stopped by to trim her grass, and another day he brought her a jerrycan of gas for her Dodge. She in turn made him a pitcher of lemonade on a particularly hot day when he was helping her in the garden, and snuggled close to him at the picture house when he put his arm around her.

It was almost sweet the way everything fell into a a smooth routine, that was altogether not unpleasant.

Petyr also had his parties, like clockwork. Sansa watched them from her sandy square of beach, and each night she could see a figure at the top most window of the mansion, staring in what felt like her direction. A weighted stare, that followed her past her trimmed lawn, through her garden, right into the walls of her bedroom. Where Sansa would lie feeling the emptiness in the bed beside her.

~~~~

It's not until the Thursday of the next week, one of the last few days in August, that she finally gets a visit from her beloved step-father.

The interactions between the two of them had been terse, to say the least. She'd heard from Harry that he had been slipping out of the house at least three times a week for a non-specified period of time. Coming home late, smelling of whiskey, cigarettes and of a spicy kind of scent that might have been cinnamon. He was always in good spirits, even going so far as to greet his wife with a kiss on the cheek and a merry tune. Cat never thought much on it, she was too busy staring out the window, looking out across the lake.

  "Do you think he's standing at the end of his dock right now, looking for me? Do you think he would see me if I stood there?"

She sounded like a young girl with a forbidden love. She was practically dizzy from it, even though Sansa knew it to be nothing more than kisses and their mutual closeness. It was no more than an affair of the heart, and Petyr was sure to keep it that way. Cat smiled though, thinking about Petyr standing at the end of the dock, his hands reaching for her.

  "I want to go to one of his parties, Sansa, I want to dance with him again, oh we used to dance when we were young. I used to be such a beautiful dancer."

  "What are you two ladies gossiping about?" Brandon teased from the bar, where he stood - tumbler in hand, drinking a fine aged bottle of bootlegged bourbon.

  "Nothing darling!" Cat spun around. "I was just saying to Sansa that I think it would be delightful if we all got out of this house once in a while, you know, the four of us. Why don't we all go out some night and I don't know, live a little, it's so stuffy in here." Sansa could almost scoff. The Stark residence was hardly what you would call stuffy. You could fill the whole of Flea Bottom in the sitting room alone.

   "What did you have in mind?" Brandon asked, a small smile playing at his lips.

   "Oh I don't know," Cat played coy, with a teasing smile. "I was thinking, perhaps we could go to that big party, you know, in the Fingers?"

The way Brandon froze sent goose pimples up Sansa's spine. His face suddenly became very dark, and all humour drained from him instantly. "Baelish's party?"

 "Baelish? Oh, will he be there?" Cat flitted about nonchalantly.

 Brandon's hand tightened around his tumbler glass, his knuckles whitening so much Sansa was sure the glass would break. "I don't think that would be such a great idea," his voice was calm.

 "Why not?" Cat continued to fiddle around distractedly, as if she hadn't a care in the world. "We probably won't even see him, can you imagine all the guests he must have to entertain. He won't even have a moment. Come on, we'll make a night of it!"

 "Where is this sudden exuberance for life coming from?" Brandon's tone border-lined on being harsh.

  "Well..." Cat finally looked up at him, taken aback by his anger. "What can I say, Brandon...I'm just so pleased, what with Sansa and Harry hitting it off so well, and you having such success with your business, and well...it's the last weekend of the summer, and we've spent the whole season cooped up in this empty house and...I thought it would be nice."

 Sansa could see Brandon melt a bit - he was not heartless, though his eyes belied a lingering suspicion. "You're right," he laughed it off, coming to envelop his wife in a tender hug. "I'm sorry, you're right. That sounds very nice, wonderful in fact."

 "Oh Brandon, do you mean it?"

 "Of course, we'll go this weekend, all four of us, we'll take the convertible. It will be a lovely evening." Brandon kissed the side of Cat's head affectionately.

~~~~ 

The next morning, she heard the rattle of a well-oiled motor, tottering up her driveway. She half-expected it to be Harry in his prized Falcon-painted race car, come to impress her with his significant skills on some abandoned dirt road, or unpopular motorway. Of course, Harry was up at the track in Harrenhal, vying to make the next Grand Prix qualifier. It was all he could talk about.

   _"Two years in a row, Sansa, I could be the youngest man to win the Prix two years running, it's never been done before!_ "

 As Sansa walked up the little pathway that led from her garden to the front of her house, she could see that the car in the drive was not Harry's at all. The smile that had been on her face moments before quickly faded.

 "Brandon?" She called, not seeing the man at all. The front door of her cottage had been left wide open, and Sansa approached it slowly, feeling a weird sense of apprehension. "Father?" She called again, louder, and more insistent. His form appeared from inside, like he had been searching the living room for something.

 "Sansa!" He said casually, smiling in a tight fashion, that only served to unsettle Sansa further. "I had knocked," he gave as his only explanation. "I haven't seen much of you," he says, passing right by any sort of greeting,

 "You saw me last night," Sansa raised her eyebrow. She had never seen Brandon quite so...unnerved.

 "I remember," He smiled once again, his eyes darting briefly from hers to the large looming mansion behind her. "You hungry?"

 "Pardon?"

 "I was thinking lunch...at the Tea Garden, or perhaps at the Lion and Boar?"

 "I thought it was inappropriate for young, unmarried girls to be seen at a gentlemen's club," her tone is teasing though laced with only the smallest fraction of something darker and more bitter tasting.

 "Not if she is accompanied by her father," he gives her a smile, pushing past her to open the door to his bright blue motorcar.

 In another life Sansa could see this approach working for another young woman much like herself - her father pulling up in his car to invite his daughter out for lunch - she squeals in delight of such a treat and runs into his arms and kisses his cheek. Sadly though, Sansa was not that girl, and Brandon was not her father, hadn't been since that strange, hot, early summer day in the Eerie when she witnessed him cracking his fist over Aunt Lysa's nose.

 "This is rather short notice," Sansa said, noticing the stiffness in her own shoulders. "I'm afraid I'm not dressed for a nice lunch in town." The lie came easy.

 "I can wait, if you would like to change into something nicer, though I think you look lovely as you are," he means it as a compliment, trying to be sweet or fatherly.

 "Um..." Sansa is searching, reaching for any excuse she could think of to get her out of her present situation.

 "Sansa, sweetheart, are you alright?" Brandon's face was painted with genuine concern as she fumbled for the words to kindly decline his offer.

 "Is that all you came here for...for lunch?" Her fingers began fidgeting with the hem of her ivory cardigan.

 "Why...what else would I come here for other than to see my lovely daughter?" he looks a tad taken aback from her question. It's the first time Sansa could say he'd been truly flustered.

 "There just seems to be more...than that."

 Brandon's unease settles even more in his shoulders and the tension in his neck looked like it could snap a leather belt in two. "To be honest Sansa, I'm concerned...for your mother, and for you," he scratches the back of his head with his left hand, squinting a bit in the sunlight. "You both have been behaving rather odd lately. Catelyn has been spending more time out of the house, and you...you seem to be harbouring some sort of secret. I can tell, sweetheart. Something's been bothering you. Is it Harry? If he's been anything less than the perfect gentleman I'll..."

 Sansa cut him off, waving her hands, trying to smile and laugh. "It's not Harry - Harry has been wonderful, I swear."

 "Then what is it, girl? You know you can tell me anything."

 "It's nothing," Sansa smiled once again.

 "Is it work? The stress? You know you can always come back home, live with us if this is all too much for you, you know that."

 "I don't think that is necess-" Brandon's hand gripped her arm. Tighter than he intended and she gasped, startled by his sudden movement.

 "Is it him?" Brandon hissed, possessed by something new entirely. "Has he threatened you. I'll kill him, I swear..."

 "No, I..." Sansa felt a genuine fear rush through her, his grip on her arm tightening even more. "Brandon, my arm..."

 "Anything wrong?" Petyr stepped from the shadows of the overgrown leafy hedge wall separating their two properties. His face was genial as always but there was a dark sort of gleam in his eye. Sansa couldn't help the feeling of relief wash over her at seeing Petyr there. Brandon froze, the look on his face unreadable, but Sansa could feel his grip loosening, enough for her to gently pry her arm out of his fingers.

 "I'm sorry to intrude, I heard voices - it sounded as though the lady was in distress, I wanted to make sure she was alright," Petyr said with a pointed gaze and a tight grin fixed on his face. "You never know what kind of men are lurking about these days."

 Brandon turned around slowly his face neutral, his eyes dark and his hands clenched at his sides. "Baelish?" He spat in disbelief.

 "Hello, old friend," Petyr's voice dripped with false charm, oozing with barely-veiled disdain. "Never thought you'd see me again, did you?

 Brandon's smiled in return. "How long has it been? 20 years?"

 "And yet here we are," Petyr's grin widened slightly. "So much has changed and yet so little."

 "Indeed, how tall are you?" Brandon teased, almost mocking in tone. Petyr laughed, like it was some old inside joke remembered from childhood. Brandon joined in with the laughter after a moment as well. The two men stood there, completely squared off laughing mirthlessly at each other, until the sounds began to mutually die off together. The tension as thick as tar.

 "How is Cat?" Petyr suddenly asks, cutting the last remaining sounds of Brandon's laughter right off. Brandon went rigid and his smile dropped instantly into a a hard neutral gaze.

 "Endlessly happy, how could she not be?" He shrugged easily, though he could not quite hide the tension from his hands.

 Petyr nods. "As it should be." Petyr's eyes briefly glanced over to Sansa who stood a few steps behind Brandon cradling her arm. "I've been terribly rude," he looks back to Brandon. "Excuse me, I must have forgotten myself. Please, come in and let me pour you a drink, for old time's sake."

 "Sansa and I were just about to go have lunch, weren't we sweetheart?" Brandon's gaze never left Petyr's even as he spoke to her. Sansa opened her mouth to protest with some excuse that she wasn't hungry, or with some hope that Petyr might be persuaded to join them, but Petyr had already read the silent plea in her mind.

 "Oh, you must come in, just for one drink, it will give us time to catch up, besides, you'll want to miss the lunch crowd."

 "Yes!" Sansa blurted out. "I...I mean, the Lion and Boar will be packed if we go now."

 "We don't have to go to the Lion and Bo-"

 Petyr cut off Brandon's protest in an instant, purposefully pushing past him to offer his hand to Sansa. "I got a new shipment of mint this morning, I've been dying to make juleps all day," Petyr gave a knowing smile to Sansa who mouthed a 'thank you' to him as he took her hand. "You can't deny me the pleasure, not even you, Brandon Stark."

 Brandon stood there, a tad flushed, and a bit flabbergasted. "I guess one drink can't hurt," he said uneasily, unconsciously wiping a sweaty palm on the back of his trouser leg.

 "Excellent, I'll have my staff prepare the tea room, I assume Sansa that you would like a pot?" Petyr began leading Sansa towards his property, leaving Brandon to follow warily behind.

 "Oh, that would be lovely!" Sansa smiled, genuinely despite herself.

 "Nothing but hard liquor for us men though, isn't that right Brandon?" Petyr turned his head back, giving Brandon the most mischievous wink.

 "I think I even have some lemon cakes floating around, just a little something to curb the appetite," Petyr continued, leading the two of them further into his expansive manse.

 The tea room, as Petyr called it, was a small room just off the second floor parlour. It was distinctly ornate with intricate blue wallpaper with gold-gilded birds, and sumptuous dark wood furnishings. Upon lighting the grand staircase in the main foyer, Petyr stopped, looked up, scrunched his brow and then turned back around.

 "It's such a beautiful day, it would be a shame to take our drinks in a room without a hint of sunlight!" He proclaimed loudly. Calling for Olyvar he had a service set up in the ball room near the open bay windows leading on to the massive veranda overlooking the pool. The air smelt of the sea, and every so often there was a soft breeze ruffling the bright green curtains. From the bar, Petyr poured a dram of good whiskey for Brandon, and another for himself, while Olyvar brought in a pristine, bone china tea set for Sansa, complete with lemon cakes, a few sandwiches, a few devil'd eggs, bits of fresh fruit, cured meats and pickled herring. Before Brandon could even take a sip there was a full luncheon laid out before them and Sansa already had a plateful. Petyr's eyes gleamed as he sat down next to Sansa with his drink and sat it on the table before him, untouched.

 "Why go out for lunch when there is food enough in here to feed the whole of Westeros," he smiled at Brandon, helping himself to a quarter of pomegranate.

Brandon sat with his tumbler of whiskey, his face souring ever-so-slightly, not touching any of the food in front of him, despite how succulent it looked or how delicious it smelled. "We could hardly impose on your hospitality like this," Brandon leaned back, a facsimile of ease, though his face belied an irritation that could be felt like a wave off his skin. There were odd lines of tension around his mouth and in the way he held his shoulders.

 "Hardly an imposition," Petyr said easily, his eyes as sharp as a predatory hawk.

 Sansa sat back, quietly nibbling on a lemon cake, being sure to stay as far out of the way of the two men as possible without being obvious.

 "Sansa," Petyr smiled, his gaze lazily breaking away from Brandon, and his hand coming to rest softly on hers. "I don't suppose your mother told you, but Brandon and I knew each other when we were young...well, I was only a boy, wasn't I?"

 Brandon smiled tightly and took a sip of his whiskey. "Depends...if you consider a boy of fifteen to be a child or perhaps a very small man." The words were pointed, meant to jab, much like needles of very sharp thistles. Each man hiding behind masks of pure civility.

 "I must say," Petyr smiled once again at Sansa. "I have always felt a strange kinship with the man. We have always seemed to want the same things."

 "Indeed, old friend, you seemed to have always wanted what came naturally to me."

 "As opposed to earning it through skill and cunning," Petyr smiled, handing a small plate of lemon cakes over to Brandon.

 "There was a little skill involved. As I recall, it was you who possessed a severe lack of skill last time we met," Brandon reached past Petyr's proffering to the plate of cold cut meats.

 Petyr's eyes flashed for a moment before slipping back underneath his mask and smiling once again. "I don't think you answered my previous question properly," Petyr leaned back once more, placing the plate close to Sansa. "About Cat."

 Brandon stiffened slightly but continued to smile in that tight, tensed, way. "I was under the impression that you had already seen her," Brandon's eyes darkened slightly as he took another sip of his whiskey.

 "She has been by to see Sansa, I have only seen her in passing," Petyr shrugged easily. "You should bring her to one of my parties, indeed, I would love to give you both the full tour."

 "We might just do that," Brandon's shoulders eased slightly, and his smirk curled a little. "I'm very interested to see how the infamous Littlefinger entertains." The tension was thicker than custard and it was all Sansa could do to choke back her tea without shattering the tenuous hold between the two men.

 "This weekend would be a fine time, lots of dancing...Cat was always such a great dancer," Petyr gave a small wink to Sansa, and she couldn't help but smile a bit.

 "I should invite some friends to come along."

 "Invite who you like, my door is open to all," Petyr smiled throwing his hands up carelessly, for emphasis.

 "Well then, you can expect us Saturday. Sansa sweetheart, you'll be there?"

 "Of course...father," Sansa muttered dumbly.

 "I'll be sure to bring along Harry, he's been positively raving about your parties."

 "It will be a pleasure to see him again."

 With a nod, Brandon downed the last of his whiskey with a soft hiss and gently placed the tumbler back on the table. "Excuse me, thank you for the nice lunch, but I really must go. My _wife_ will be expecting me home. I have some phone calls to make." He leant down and kissed Sansa gently on the head. "I will see you later, sweetheart," he stands up to his full height, giving one last lingering glare to Petyr before walking out.

 It's not until she hears the rumble of his motorcar that Sansa finally exhales the breath she had been holding since lunch began. Petyr smiled, standing up and throwing his hands up in a triumphant manner. He came up to the great bay windows and looked out across the sea, out to Cat, his ambition glowing his eyes like hot embers.

 "Twenty years I've wanted to do that," Petyr muttered out loud. "Wanted to make him squirm like that." Sansa sat in silence, looking out the way Brandon had left. "Twenty years, and he's still the same brute that he ever was," Petyr rested his arm against the glass at forehead level, his other hand coming to tap gently on the crystalline surface. "He won't win this time."

 "Do you think he suspects?" Sansa asked dully, suddenly feeling very tired once again.

 "Let him," Petyr laughed. "Let him fester with it."

 "What about tomorrow? When he's here?"

 Petyr turned around swiftly, the fire once again stoked in his eyes. "I will dance with her right in front of him."

 Sansa reached over and grabbed Petyr's untouched whiskey, downing it all. "I don't like you like this," she muttered. "Petty and vengeful."

He softened a little, his hand coming to rest near hers on the table. In her periphery she could just see the tip of his pointer finger slowly drift closer to touching hers.

 "I made a promise to you," he said softly. "I won't hurt him more than necessary. This is about Cat, this has always been about Cat."

 "Just now...seemed a lot like it was about Brandon."

 "Of course, I resent the man," Petyr hissed slightly. "He stole the woman I loved more than life itself and then threw her to the side the moment a more exciting venture came along. Only to snatch her up once again when she was at her most vulnerable, whereas I..." His lips clamped shut before he could say any more, steeling himself back under his controlled mask. "He is smothering her. He's never been the right man for her and you know it. He loves her out of pride, because he was supposed to have married her instead of your father. He only loves himself, and he only ever has." The words were dry and almost pained with his gravelly voice. "I have only ever cared for what was best for Cat, even if it's not me," his voice croaked over the words, his mask cracking slightly. "There was a reason I waited so long..."

 "My father..."

 "You can see it in her face...that damned newspaper clipping I have stored up in that album. I have never seen that face with my own two eyes. Not even when we were children. I can't give her back her old life...but I have other things I can offer. Love, protection, security for you and your siblings...and you..." His hand was suddenly on her chin, turning her gaze towards his. His eyes were warm and soft, and his smile lilting. "I owe you more than anything," he almost whispered his voice was so low, so unreadable. "You, of all people, sweetling, deserve to have the life that you want...just say the word and it is done."

 Sansa blinked, hard. She didn't really understand what he meant and she was to afraid to ask at this particular moment. She had always thought that she was living her life on her terms. Making her own money, working hard, keeping her own house, not relying on a man for her happiness - compared to a lot of girls her age she was practically progressive. Now she wondered if she was truly as free as she thought she was.

 Petyr eventually backed away, going back to the window, his face drawn back under sad grey eyes and an unmoving smile. Sansa turned her gaze back out to the door, her brow frowning slightly as she stared at the reminiscent trace of Brandon's footsteps out of the ballroom. Words echoing through her observant mind in a endless loop.

 "I wonder who he's going to call."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I'm a terrible person for not updating for a WHOLE year.  
> Sorry, I fell out of writing fanfic for a bit, what with the craziness of life. But I'm back, at least for now. I haven't posted lots but I have still being twitching my fingers over the keyboard enough to spout out some ideas. More to come!  
> Thank you to all who sent me such encouraging messages and comments, it really kept me going on the hard days.  
> So enjoy and thank you, and the next update will hopefully not take as long as this one did.
> 
> *Important note: I edited the ending to the last chapter, because it honestly stumped me, so I changed it, nothing drastic.
> 
> And next chapter will truly be the dinner party from HELL!


	17. Chapter 17

That Saturday, Sansa could feel an odd unpleasantness in the air. A weighty oppressive haze looming over the dulled gold lustre of Baelish's ballroom.

She couldn't put her finger on it.  
Around her the people were no different than any other of Petyr's parties - the same exuberance, the same quantity of champagne passed around from tray to tray, hand to hand, mouth to mouth. The music was still as vibrant and vivacious as before, yet Sansa stood at the top of the stairs, feeling like it was all happening in a snow globe. The viscosity of the air in the room was as thick as tar and the people couldn't help but dance in it. The colours were still there, yet faded somehow, as in an old photograph in one of Petyr's albums.

Sansa was garbed in a glittering white and silver gown - the dangling, sparkly tassels jostling with every step and tickling her knees - an intricate design on the bodice that tapered delicately into her lithe waist. She had on a pair of silk white gloves that came all the way past her elbow and a bejewelled band with her pair of doves cinching it into her hair and a white and grey dove feather peeking out the top of her faux bob.

The outfit didn't belong to her, in fact it belonged to Petyr.

 _"I have just the thing,"_ he had whispered conspiratorially, dragging her up the stairs. _"I was saving it for one of my girls, but none had been worthy of its intricate beauty."_ Petyr pulled her into one of the Georgian state rooms. A dark oak wardrobe stood vigil in the corner - which he opened with a key procured from his vest pocket.  
_"You, sweetling, were made for this dress."_

His girls, as he had told her quite plainly, were an added level to his entertainments. Hired, specifically trained women who were hidden amongst the guests at the party, made to appear as part of the faceless, nameless, hedonistic crowd.

 _"I deal in secrets, Sansa, more than anything,"_ he whispered lowly to her, pouring her another glass of whiskey.

" _It is how I keep the upper hand in all my business. Men are quite simple beasts once you know how to read them,"_ he chewed on a mint leaf from a small bowl on the table. " _And they are never so quick to share when they have a glass of champagne in their hand, and a girl on their lap."_ He chewed some more. _"Though I am not just some low-brow brothelkeep. The women are well cared for and are very well paid - all of them chose the profession, and they may leave my service at anytime they wish, so long as their tongues stay tied. Olyvar makes note of every transaction. The Spider's goons keep close watch of every girl that goes into every room, and with whom - every dark corner is known, and my eyes are everywhere."_

_"That's why you hold these parties?"_

_"That's one of the reasons, yes."_

_"And you...have you ever occupied one of these dark corners with one of your girls?"_

He stops chewing and looks at her, eyes like steel.

_"Never."_

Now Sansa stood on the second floor landing, empty champagne glass in hand, watching the sea of bodies, boil and rise in the ballroom below.

It is nearly a quarter to eight and the party is in full swing. The dancing is vigorous, and weighted down by the peculiar quality of oppressiveness shadowing the entire household. More so than any other of Petyr's parties that Sansa had attended...or perhaps she hadn't been aware of it until now. Perhaps she had been numb to it, or too drunk to understand the heavy feeling in her chest and limbs. Perhaps her consciousness had not been alerted to its presence until she saw the first girl, in an exquisite knee length flapper gown, bejewelled in green and black that walked past and offered her a sultry wink before disappearing back into the mass.

She hears the musical tinkling of ice in glass to her left and sees his smooth ringed hand holding a tumbler of whiskey just outside her vision.

"I thought perhaps this was more to your taste," his smoky words shivered against her spine. "You don't seem like much of a champagne kind of girl anymore."

"It's too sweet," she says flatly.

"You prefer the burn, the harshness," he smirks, adjusting his mockingbird pin.

"Whiskey doesn't lie," she shot him a harsh look. "Whiskey doesn't feel the need to hide."

His face was passive, unreadable.

"Champagne is nothing but emptiness and leads to empty-headedness."

"It seems I've turned you into a cynic."

"No, you've turned me into one of your girls," she downs the whiskey in one gulp, choking it back with only a slight flinch in the corner of her mouth. "I honestly can't tell you which is worse."

Sansa hands the tumbler back to him and rests her hands on the railing.

"Sweetling," his voice is soft and she honestly can't take it. Her fists clench over the cool brass and her eyes squeeze shut for barely a second before she opens them again, her body relaxing once more to an unnerving cool.

"Do you want to dance?" She turns to look at him. "I haven't danced all night. It's a party we should be dancing."

"You want to dance?" his eyes narrowed with such tender scrutiny.

"Why wouldn't I? Look at me, look at this dress. Doesn't it just make you want to dance?" She shook the bouncing tassels about her knees to prove her point.

Petyr continued to stare at her in his quiet concerned manner. "Sansa, whatever is troubling you about tonight you have no cause to worry,” he smiled softly, “I don’t intend to...”

"It's not..." Sansa clamped her lip down. "It's nothing, really. All this, it...it doesn't even seem like a party anymore.”

Petyr places her empty glass of whiskey and his own untouched glass on the table behind him. "Come." His tone was kind but firm, his hand grasping hers and gently leading her off the landing on to the grand staircase that spilled out into the ballroom.

"Petyr! What are you doing?"

"You said you wanted to dance."

He pulled her on to the floor, wrapping his arm around her waist. God, she could smell the mint on his breath, the spice of his cologne. The music was fast and electric, the dancing rhythmic and enticing, and Petyr - it was almost too much to have him pressed as close as he was.  
Sansa had tried, in earnest, to forget her feelings in regards to the enigmatic Petyr Baelish. She had tried so so hard to turn her thoughts to young Harry - in truth he was charming, and their budding relationship the past few weeks had indeed been a simple and pleasant evolution. But compared to dancing with Petyr; the spice of intrigue, the hint of danger and excitement; the mystery and the man himself - Harry paled.

Petyr tilted her chin up to meet his mossy eyes.

“What are you thinking about, sweetling?” he murmured lowly, the din of the ballroom falling to the background, like a dull thundering roar. Petyr’s eyes were endlessly green this close - as green as the light gleaming across the still lake.  
“You seem to be...” he hesitated, his mouth curving upwards in a sad little smile. “Disenchanted.”

Disenchanted. That was a word indeed.

Sansa sighed out a small little laugh, averting her gaze down to her hand resting on his shoulder.

If only that were true.

“Have I pulled back the curtain too far? Revealed too much?”

Sansa met his gaze again, the languid depths piercing her.

“With you?” She shrugged. “I could hardly be disenchanted.”

“Yet your eyes...you don’t look at me the way you once did.”

Sansa detached her gaze once again, feeling her ears burn. Why did he do this to her? She was not who he wanted so why drag her down further. She was already hopelessly besotted.

“Perhaps you are right,” she muttered, fiddling with a wary string on the seam of his otherwise pristine suit jacket. “Perhaps I’m just worried about the outcome of tonight. But it’s not just that, I...” she gulped heavily, the words feeling stuck to the back of her throat. “It’s just that I don’t know where I stand with you anymore.”

“Where you stand...” his brow creased. The hand resting on her back pressed ever so harder into her spine. To keep her from running.

“In the beginning, you had an interest in me because of what I could provide for you...” she swallowed again. God, why was this so hard to say? “And now...well you’ve gotten what you wanted, haven’t you? So what could you possibly need from me anymore.”

The lines around his eyes crinkled in what looked like a restrained twinge of pain. Like she’d hurt him.

“Do you presume to know what I want?” he meant the words teasingly, but there was a tension at the back of his throat; a small break in his usually so steady tone.

“Isn’t that what all this has been about? Her. Here. Tonight. Isn’t that what you’ve been dreaming about for all these years?”

He twirled her around, her back coming to bump against his chest, pulled flush against him. Her heart throbbed to be this close to him, yet her gut roiled with anger. Now was not the time to be indecisive, they had come too far for that.

Sansa lifted her free hand to his face and held him still - two statues, a tableaux against a menagerie of dancing fools.

“You promised me,” she whispered. “You promised this was about her and not your petty revenge. This is still about her, isn’t it? About Cat.”

He looked down at her, his face unreadable except for his eyes which beheld such tenderness Sansa thought she might die. He did not respond immediately, only lifted his hand to rest over hers on his jaw, scratching the inner palm with the toughness of his course facial hair.

“Yes, yes of course,” he finally muttered, pulling away. “Only Cat.”

And just like that her heart plummeted.

A wayward foot was the only thing that reminded Sansa that they should be dancing. It would be difficult for all the myriad of spies watching to pick out anyone in the sea of bodies, but two souls standing stark still in the centre of the ballroom while others danced around them - they would stick out as though they were made out of gold.

They did not speak anymore, only danced. Sansa closed her eyes and pretended this wasn’t their last moment together, though she was determined that it was. Once Cat arrived it would be the end, and she would move on - with Harry, with someone, anyone who would be willing to settle for only half a soul. Her other half she left in the coat pocket of a green-eyed enigma.

And just like that, it ended.

The music died, the band done for the hour, a new entertainment took the stage. A man on the grand piano, playing hopping lyric less jazz. With a bulk of the dancers filtering out of the ballroom and onto the veranda to refill their drinks and peruse the buffet and swim in the pool, Sansa could hear her voice clearly over the crowd.

“Sansa!!”

Sansa dropped Petyr’s hand immediately, turning to see her mother (and Brandon) entering from the foyer.

“Oh my darling girl!” Cat ran over, cupping her daughter’s face in her long, gloved hands. “You look a dream. Where ever did you find this dress?”

Brandon stood a few steps behind, the look in his eyes dark and willowy.

“Petyr leant it to me...it belongs to a friend.”

Petyr smiled, giving an easy shrug. “Sansa is modest. She wouldn’t let me pay for a new one.”

Brandon’s jaw clenched, as well as his fist.

“But it could’ve been made for her! Come now, give us a twirl.”

Sansa felt embarrassment rise up her cheeks, though obliged, giving a small, hesitant turn around, her eyes catching Petyr’s. He looked proud; smug.  
Her heart sank.

“You, my darling Cat look just as lovely,” Sansa heard Petyr, though kept her eyes down. She felt cheap and exposed with this infernal gown on. Not like herself at all, but what Petyr wanted her to be.

“Oh this old thing,” Cat shoved Petyr playfully.

If they were trying to play it cool, they were doing a shite job of it. Brandon came around to Sansa, his hand warm at her back. It was a comforting, almost fatherly gesture.

“Dad,” she uttered lowly, touching her hands to his shoulder. She’d never called him dad in her life. Only father or Brandon. It was her way to distinguish him from his predecessor, but right now she needed him to notice her - and he did. The hardness in his eyes melted into awe, the lines in his face softening and warming. “Could you grab me a drink?”

It was an earnest plea - he could sense that, and he nodded.

“Of course. Champagne?”

Sansa shook her head. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“Cat, darling! A drink?”

She sighed dramatically, adoring the prospect, “Oh yes!”

Petyr’s smile was tense, his eyes searching for Sansa’s.

“Petyr, good man. Champagne for the ladies and whiskey for the boys?” Brandon playfully jabbed Petyr in the shoulder as though they were old friends, though Sansa could see the lingering tendrils of hatred behind each tight smile and forced little laugh.

“Absolutely!” Petyr made a show of being the jovial host, leading Brandon off to the bar, leaving Sansa alone with Cat.

Cat was enthralled, standing before the ballroom in a rose gold gown, watching as the pianist continued to play.

“I’m going to dance with him,” Cat sighed, her eyes full of glimmering gold and something that was not quite here. Sansa could not see Petyr’s ballroom reflected in her mother’s eyes.

“Brandon’s gonna know,” Sansa muttered lowly. “If he sees you dance he’s going to know. He may even suspect already the way you and Petyr fall all over each other.”

“Oh...” Cat said no more to that effect. Her concern barely brimming over her excitement.

“Mom,” Sansa shook Cat’s shoulder. “Please, be careful.”

As if the reality of the situation just dawned on her, Cats eyes dimmed slightly. Her smile failing at the corners.

“We used to dance, all the time, we did,” Cat’s eyes stared through the crowd, beyond the room, beyond this time and space.

“You and Petyr?”

Cat blinked, the gold returning. “Hmmm?”

Petyr appeared with a cocktail in his hand, a golden sugary thing with twists of lemon and a maraschino cherry sunk deep into its bowl. He snuck up behind Cat and reached his arm around her holding the drink as though it were a priceless jewel and she the goddess. Cat’s face lit up like a child’s.

“For me?” she smiled and twisted in his arms.

“But of course!” he smiled, enjoying the closeness.

Cat peeked over his shoulder, looking rather conspiratorial. “But where’s Brandon?”

“Caught in a rather intriguing conversation with a well known Olympic rower, I believe. They met at the bar.”

“You know such fascinating people,” Cat leaned even more into him and he smiled even more bashfully. A pang of longing tore through Sansa’s chest. “I know very little, it is them that seem to know me, or at least of me. They want to know me just enough to put a face to the name, but I am truly unremarkable. I think in that way I must disappoint most of them.”

Cat touched his cheek, running her long nails over the skin of his face, the lines of his mouth and bopping him on the end of his nose. “We should dance.”

“The band will be starting again in a moment,” he handed her the cocktail. “Finish your drink and then we will dance.”

Cat drank the whole thing down in three gulps.

“Tosh the band, let us start dancing without them!” She quickly deposited her glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “I am too excited just to stand and wait for music.”

Cat tugged Petyr along by the hand. “It would be rather inconspicuous if we did that, my dear.”

Cat stopped in her tracks, looking from him over to Sansa. Sansa felt red all over. For the first time that evening she wished Harry were here.

“Of course,” Cat’s smile went tight, her laughter forced. “How silly of me. Alcohol always makes me a bit silly, even just a small amount.”

Petyr smiled at her, tightening his hand around hers. “We will dance tonight, we will dance all night if that’s what you wish. We’ll dance the whole night long.”

“I can’t stand it Petyr, having you so close but not being able to touch you or hold you or kiss you, what with all these eyes around.”

Another pang shot through Sansa. God, if only Cat knew.

“Must we go through the whole night like this?”

“No,” he muttered lowly, coming as close as he dared. “I will arrange something. I will find us some way to be alone. I promise.”

Just then the band made their way back to their podiums. The strings testing out a few stray notes. The crowd murmured with excitement and anticipation.

“Oh Petyr look!” Cat cried happily.

Petyr turned to Sansa as if to say something, the beginning of a word just beginning to shape in his mouth when the music drowned it out in one fell swoop. A pumping, rhythmic swing that had all bodies within earshot soon hopping along to the magnetic beat. Sansa quickly darted from the floor of the ball room up the grand staircase to watch the dancing commence.

Not an hour ago it had been her on that floor, her hand on his shoulder, their bodies so close she could smell the mint wafting off his clothes. She’d only recently learned he kept a handful of leaves in his pocket at all times.

 _“Tricks of the trade,”_ he’d muttered. “ _They can’t accuse you of being a bootlegger if they can’t smell the liquor on you.”_ He offered her a leaf. _“In everything, Sansa, you must always have clean hands.”_

 _“Why are you telling me all this?”_ she had begged more than she had asked. The room had been spinning.

_“Because I want you to know. I want you to know everything.”_

Sansa could spot them in the crowd, the gold of her mother’s dress acting like a beacon. The way she shimmered in Petyr’s sure arms made her stand out amongst the blue feathers and the green tassels. She had never really taken in the sight of Petyr dancing. He was really quite smooth, though he was not built like a dancer. Yet with Cat he beheld a confidence in his movements, and a surety in his gaze that could rival any ballerino from the Moscow Ballet, some of which were dancing right alongside him.

_Did we look like that? Did he dance like that with me?_

Brandon came up the stairs with a glass of champagne in one hand and a whiskey in the other. He looked much more at ease now than when he had arrived. He handed her the flute and rested his weight heavily on the bannister.

“I just had the most fascinating talk with one of the Ironborn Rowers. Can you believe that one of them attends this soiree. That Baelish sure knows how to attract certain people.” Brandon looked out over the dancing crowd. “They almost seem drawn to him.”

Sansa looked down at her glass.

“People see what they want to see. That’s all,” Sansa took a tentative sip of the champagne. The taste no longer excited her.

“And what do you see?” Brandon turned to her, his expression tender if a little hard around the edges.

“Petyr is my neighbor. What am I supposed to see?”

“He has an interest,” Brandon took a drink of his whiskey. “In you. And her. I just don’t know what. I will find out though, you can make sure of that.”

“Father?”

He looked up at her again.

“To protect you, of course. It’s what Ned would have done.”

The image of her father flittered at the back of her mind. The weathered dark eyes and his strong chin - Brandon was right, he wouldn’t have trusted Petyr either.

“Well if it isn’t...” Brandon launched himself off the bannister, handing Sansa his whiskey. “Robby Glover you old sod...” he stomped up the stairs and was gone. Lost to the crowd and the bodies, and the glittering gold that was Baelish’s last summer party. The drinks had been sufficiently passed to everyone, and the music, the dancing, the atmosphere became all the more vigorous.

A young woman in a blue dress sat on the railing on the second floor landing, a man between her legs and a drink in her hands. Another man slipped rather comically down the last four steps, his glass breaking on the polished wood flooring. He was too amused to be bothered by the cut on his hand. Another bottle of champagne was sabered open, it’s contents spilling onto the crowd below.

Up the stairs from where Sansa stood she met eyes with the Spider, standing vigil to the chaos. He looked at the woman in the blue dress, the skirt now rucked up to her waist. He made note of the man with the bruised tailbone as he got up and limped over to the bar to get another drink. He even leered rather disdainfully at the man with the saber, happy filling the glasses of all those around him before drinking what was left in the bottle. Then he made note of her. The dress she was wearing, where she was standing, who she was waiting for. He gave her a tight smile and a small nod of his head in acknowledgement. Or perhaps of understanding. She was no longer just the simple girl from next door, she belonged to all of this.

A hand from nowhere grabbed hers, startling her. It was Petyr, his green eyes sparkling and shimmering with flecks of gold in the irises.

“Where’s Brandon?” he asked quickly, coming way too close, his smile just a tad too cunning.

“H-he went upstairs,” Sansa stuttered, more so from his sudden proximity than to his question.

“Good. Come with me,” he tugged her down the stairs, his smile crinkling his long beautiful cheek. He looked so much like a boy at this moment. A boy about to sneak a cookie from the cookie jar.

“I have a plan in place. Brandon should be too busy to even notice we’ve gone. Enough to give us at least a half hour.”

He artfully weaved Sansa and himself through the bodies in the ballroom, avoiding kicking legs and swooshing skirts until they made it to the outside. The outside was just as crazy as the inside. The maze, the pool, the buffet, overrun with raucous party-goers. Petyr effortlessly outmaneuvered each one - darting from one guest who had over imbibed, and fell to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach into a hedge. Two half-naked and soaking wet girls ran past them giggling, a half dressed man in hot pursuit. The occasional guest threw a hand up in greeting to garner Petyr’s attention - the few that could recognize him, and even then, he diverted hoots and hollers with a simple wave of his hand. Like a magician making them all disappear.

“Petyr, where are we going?” Sansa managed to say as they descended into the entrance of the maze. “Where is Cat?”

Petyr pulled her along the tall green hedges banking the lines between her property and his.

“I sent her to hide,” he said simply, stopping his pursuit to turn to her, again, intensely too close. “In your garden.”

His smile was conspiratorial, as though he had committed a heist. Stealing a wife from her husband.

“We only have this brief window of time, preferably uninterrupted. None of my guests will venture beyond my property and your garden is secluded enough I should think.”

He was rambling, to himself. He released her arm and continued to walk a few paces ahead of her. “Some place private for us to talk, just talk, sweetling. I haven’t the faintest what I’m to say, but I can’t let the opportunity pass. I’ve waited for this. You have no idea how long I have waited for this. No one knows.”

He turned to her again, his hand shaking as he clasped her forearm once more. “I need you...”

Sansa gasped at his sudden proximity again, and he flinched, thinking he’d hurt her. He immediately released her arm and backed a step away.

“I need you to stand guard at the gate, in sight. In case Brandon...or our time...” he fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat, producing a simple hour glass, no bigger than pack of cards. “Do you have a watch?”

Sansa shook her head, her words at a loss.

“Take this. It’s for eggs.”

Sansa blinked dumbly. Eggs?

“The sand falls at two minutes instead of an hour. Perfect soft-boiled.” He smoothed his hair down and dug into his left breast pocket for a mint leaf. “Turn it over ten times and then give me a signal. We shall return to the party then.”

All of Petyr’s rambling instructions seemed to make sense now. He had scheduled a rendezvous with Cat and Sansa was to be their minder. Much like when the two of them had been reunited - a chaperone; a witness to their love. Petyr so desperately required another’s eyes for his were blind. All he saw was Cat, the girl he had loved so many years ago.

“Will you? Please say you will,” he begged.

Sansa didn’t trust herself to speak. The words trapped on her tongue only spoke of her own desperate will to be the one that he saw. All she could do was nod, clutching the hour glass to her chest as they made their way to the break in the hedges where the gate to her property lay.

From where she stood vigil at the gate entrance she could see Petyr and Cat in the sanctuary of her little sheltered garden, with its hanging ivy canopy and grinning rosebuds still refusing to bloom even in the late summer warmth. Sansa feared they would never come out, never blossom and grow. Soon it would be too late and they would wither and die in the desolate cold of winter.

_One turn._

Petyr held Cat to him inside the little oasis. Kissing her forehead, her eyelids - gentle, chaste little things. Breathing her in as if she were a rare rose herself. The way Cat blushed, it was as though she were a girl once more, the girl she had been when Petyr had fallen in love with her.

“Do you remember?” Sansa swore she could read the words off Petyr’s lips.

“We were so young back then,” her mother sighed, resting her head on his shoulder as he led her in a soft sway. A song that only they remembered.

_Three turns._

Petyr kissed her; eyes shut tightly as to memorize every sense, every feeling of this moment.

“I love you.”

_Five turns._

Cat broke away, running into the thicket of trees that outlined Sansa’s property. A large weir wood with a wide trunk. She laughed, a young girl in springtime, barefoot in the grass.  
Petyr chased after her, darting around the opposite side of the tree to catch her. Her arms flung about his neck as she kissed him with the abandon of a young maiden.

_Seven turns._

Cat turned around the trunk of the tree, her hand pressed into the bark.

“Carve our names into the this tree so we’ll never forget.”

 _P+C Forever_.

“I don’t have a knife.”

He caught her hand again and pressed her into the bark.

_Nine turns._

“Petyr, tell me this is not the end.”

He kissed her. Deeply, with all the love twenty years of waiting could give.

“I would give it all in a heartbeat for you.”

Sansa felt a hand on her shoulder, startling her, causing her to drop the hourglass before the last few grains of sand could fall.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Sansa,” she recognized the watery accent and stuttery words.

“My goodness, Mr. Hollard, you gave me a fright.”

“I’m so sorry, I really am,” he was already fumbling, trying to lower himself to one knee to help her find the object she’d dropped. “It was not my intention, I swear to you.”

His hands shook from the drink and his face blistered red. A new stain adorned his dinner jacket and there was a hole the size of his finger in the cumberbund.

“It’s alright, Mr, Hollard, please, let me,” she picked up the hour glass, now marred with flecks of dirt.

Dontos struggled to stand, grunting rather unattractively as he attempted to find his footing.

“Please, call me by my first name, Dontos. I have never really lived up to the family name. It was a great name once, I assure you.”

Sansa reached out her arm to him, to hold him steady, as his left leg managed to get underneath him.

“I am fairly certain it is still a great name.”

The poor man’s red face winced in unmistakable anguish.

“I’m afraid that is not true. I’m afraid I have brought a lot of shame on my family. As you know I am quite dull and poor with money.

“You are not dull in the slightest!”

“Oh indeed I am Miss. Incredibly dull, even worse when I’ve been drinking.”

“I don’t find you dull at all. The few times we’ve met I have always enjoyed your company.”

Dontos seemed to smile at that. “You’re too kind Miss.”

“Sansa please.”

“Miss Sansa.”

Sansa smiled warmly. He was a sweet if sad little man.

She looked back at Petyr and Cat, now hidden behind the trunk of the tree, still wrapped in each other. With a delicate hand she gently tugged Dontos into an easy stroll, away from the gate.

“Tell me something, Mr. Hollard,” Sansa began, cut off by his nervous spluttering.

“Dontos, please, if you will Miss Sansa,” he lowered his eyes to the grass at their feet rather bashfully.

“Alright...Dontos,” the name was odd, and hard to wrap her lips around. “How did you meet Mister Baelish?”

Dontos let out a nervous squeal-like kind of sound.

“It is the strangest thing, I tell you,” he laughed, a high, wispy, shrill little noise. “I swear to you Miss, I think he found me. I was up to my ears in debts and problems, but a few months ago, six at the most. I, uh, am ashamed to say I had a problem with the races.”

“The races?” Sansa nestled her arm into the crook of his elbow, hanging off his arm as he told his story. The more he relaxed the easier they fell into step with each other.

“The horses. Oh I love them! I would lose hundreds upon hundreds. Oh, I am helpless at playing the odds though. I haven’t the gift for it, you see. I’m not blessed in any way. I would consistently see myself to be the unluckiest man in the world, if it were not for Littlefinger’s kindness. He may not act it all the time but he is a man of great compassion and understanding. He has let me stay here until I can pay off my debts and get back on my feet. I fear I have taken advantage of his kindness though, I am rather hopeless.”

“I’m sure if there were any kind of abuse Mister Baelish would address it. As it stands, I don’t think he is bothered by your presence in his home. Perhaps he enjoys your company.”

“I do not imagine so, Miss Sansa,” Dontos smiles somewhat sadly. “Not as much as he enjoys the company of yourself.”

Sansa couldn’t help the wave of bitter feeling seeping through her. If only he knew.

“And the other lady of course,” Dontos continued. “I think he finds her most wonderful. I can’t say I share the sentiment. I think you are a hundred times more lovely.”

Sansa smiled, leaning over to kiss the man’s cheek.

“That is very sweet of you to say so.”

The man’s face turned beet red and he spluttered once again, this time with unfettered bewilderment.

“As you say Dontos, some force brought you to Mister Baelish’s home. I am sure you have some undetermined purpose here, and when you find it it will more than make up for your past indiscretions, you must merely stop feeling sorry for yourself, and trust that when the time comes you’ll be ready.”

Dontos smiled, this time without the weight of sadness at the corners of his eyes and mouth. A true smile. He nodded his head in silent thanks, bereft of words.

“Sansa!” Brandon’s voice cut across the walls of the maze, unmistakably.

Sansa froze, her ears pricking, trying to gauge the direction and the proximity of her “father”.

“Dontos, wait here,” Sansa whispered to him. “I’ll be back in a moment. If my father comes this way distract him as best you can. Please?”

Dontos looked warily in the direction of Brandon’s voice, now calling for his wife.

“What shall I say?”

“Anything, just keep him from passing this point. Pretend to be drunk and sick, in need of assistance, tell him a story, anything to keep him occupied. Will you do this for me?”

Dontos’ lower lip quivered, but looking into her eyes, seemed to see the reflection of someone else in her eyes, a man he wanted to become. Summoning whatever courage he had, he tampered down his doubt and gave her a sure nod. Sansa smiled in thanks. She turned to look at the gate separating her property from Petyr’s where he and Cat still lay beyond. She and Dontos hadn’t managed to stray too far during their little stroll.

“Sansa!” She heard Brandon call again.

She ran as fast and as quietly as she could across her lawn to the tree just on the borderline of her garden into the weir wood. She found Petyr and Cat just a few metres beyond it, holding hands.

Petyr looked up when he saw Sansa running towards them.

“Sweetling?”

“Brandon...he’s...looking for us,” she managed to say through large heaving breaths. “You need to get back to the party.”

Petyr turned his face to Cat, a look of some sort of understanding drifting between them. One hand lifting to gently cup her face, a comforting gesture; a familiar one.

He turned back to Sansa.

“Yes, of course,” he walked forwards, his other hand still linked with Cats. He reached Sansa and grabbed her hand as well with his free one, tucking it into his elbow, now with both women on either side.

“Walk calmly, casually. Just three people out for a stroll. Showing Cat and her beautiful daughter the extent of my property. Admiring the night sky from the dock.”

He calmly walked forward with both ladies falling in step beside him.

“I will disperse. Make myself scarce for awhile to avoid his suspicion.”

Cat laughed. “Ooh, Petyr it’s all so exciting.”

Sansa noticed the way she clung to him, the way she almost seemed to lean heavily on his arm as they continued to walk back across Sansa’s lawn and through the gate into the maze once more. It was like she was drunk on his kisses, intoxicated by the nearness of him, high off the girlish fantasy of forbidden love. And he - Petyr still kept the mask of Littlefinger securely over his face, but she could see in the subtle lines of his eyes and corners of him mouth that on the inside he was soaring. It was beautiful, it was heartbreaking.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar slurred stammering of the dear sweet Dontos, helplessly trying to divert Brandon’s attentions.

“Cat!” he frantically barged past the man, nearly knocking him into the hedge. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Cat smiled, immediately drifting off Petyr’s arm over to Brandon’s. “We needed some air, Sansa and I, that ballroom was so stuffy, and it’s finally cooled down to a bearable temperature.”

The lie simply floated out of her mouth, weightless and feathery, caressing the dark suspicious countenance casted over Brandon’s face. His sharp eyes shot to Sansa, still with her arm entwined with Petyr’s.

“Sansa’s garden is truly a magnificent sight in the moonlight, she was just showing us her roses in bloom,” Petyr’s mask was firmly in place as well, the glint in his eyes like flint near kindling.

“I was looking for you,” Brandon said rather dumbly, though his eyes betrayed the lingering doubts. If he looked at her she was sure he could see the whole truth played out in her face. God, why did she let Petyr drag her into this?

“Well you’ve found us!” Cat laughed airily, leaning her head on Brandon’s shoulder. “We didn’t mean to abandon you, I assure you,” she kissed his cheek, nuzzling her nose into his stubbly neck. “It was only a little stroll.”

Her attentions seemed to ease him, if only slightly, though Sansa couldn’t help but feel a heavy sense of wariness. This was all a bit too easy.

Brandon finally smiled, an uneasy type of grin that made Sansa’s stomach wince.

Brandon took his wife’s hand in his. “You must be famished, darling?”

Cat laughed, “Parched and famished! Positively ravenous. Would you fetch me a drink, my dear?”

Petyr gently removed Sansa’s hand from his elbow, the movement oddly tight and tense.

“I believe I must play the bad host, I have some business to attend to-“

Brandon suddenly clapped Petyr on the shoulder, an unwarranted gesture if Sansa had ever seen one.

“Not just yet, old friend, you must play host just a tad longer,” Brandon’s smile was downright twisted.

What was he playing at?

“I should very much like for you to meet the guests I have invited, it will only take a moment,” he turned his gaze directly to Petyr, his eyes glinting in their own mischievous way. “They would all very much like to meet you. They should be just arriving. You don’t mind do you?”

Petyr cocked his head and lifted is hand in a small concession. Damn him and his ego. “Lead the way.”

Brandon began tugging Cat back towards the house, his hand never leaving hers or the small of her back.

Petyr looked over to Sansa, the unease in his eyes no doubt mirrored in her own.

With a slight shake of his shoulders, he lifted his hand in a gesture for her to walk first and he would follow. Modern chivalry, Sansa thought.

“Is your Golden Falcon joining us?” he asked, hand lightly resting on the small of her back.

“Harry is racing up in High Garden for the Grande Prix qualifiers. He won’t be back till tomorrow evening. If he wins he’ll be the young driver to win it twice in a row.”

“I see,” Petyr continued walking beside her, his gaze up and forward, guiding her with his hand to keep in step. “You like young Harry, I suppose.”

“I do,” Sansa said non-commitally.

“He seems to be a good fellow. Strong, intelligent, witty.”

“He is all those things.”

“But I suspect there is more to him than meets the eye,” Petyr tugged on her elbow as a drunken party guest nearly barrelled into her. Just barely avoiding the collision, his hand on her back gently pushed her steadily into pace.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mister Baelish,” she was not suddenly not enjoying the tone of this conversation at all.

Petyr stopped again, finally turning his face to look at her.

“All I mean is that...” he hesitated, a word held on the tip of his tongue and clamped down hard upon by lips and teeth. “All clever men are birds of prey.”

Sansa blinked, her head tilting in confusion. _What was he saying?_

“You know I deal in secrets Sansa, everyone one at this part has one, and I know them all. It is the price of admission,” he hesitates as she squares her shoulders to him, confusion furrowing her brows even further. He sighs. “Ask your falcon exactly how he won that great race.”

With that Petyr brushed past her, his shoulder grazing by hers as he passed through the arches of his grand ballroom.

This was all beginning to feel like an egregious mistake. She wished she had never come here; that she never had left the warm summery air of High Garden; never made the trip down to the smallest of the Fingers; never looked upon that tiny cottage nestled between a dream and an enigma. She wished she’d never met him. Wished she had never seen him on that dock, nor accepted his invitation to his party, never allowed him entrance in to her world. If she had she would not be where she was now, her entire life uprooted and chained to a man made of smoke and sad smiles.

All she had wanted was to touch the enigma next door and now she was irreparably infected.

This had to stop, this all had to stop - she had to stop.

Her intention was to leave, to kiss her mother goodbye, get in her dodge and drive. As far away as she could go. Away from Petyr, from Harry, from Cat, from Brandon. So determined was her resolve she did not immediately notice the change in the air the moment she stepped into the ballroom. Something was off, as if the dancing was just a hair off beat, the music a fraction out of time. That peculiar looming haze coming over her, hitting her like a solid knee to the solar plexus.

She saw Petyr refilling his drink at the bar, two whiskies in hand. The ease at which he turned to face her, his face lifting. It momentarily stopped time. One hand lifted to her with the proffered whiskey.

It was almost enough to make her forget it all. Almost.

Cat seemed oblivious to everything, sipping on her cocktail beside him, laughing at the joke the lady next to her must have uttered. Brandon had disappeared.

She approached Petyr, taking the glass of whiskey as he lit a cigarette.

“A truce,” he smiled. “You must forgive me, I am but a fool.”

Sansa couldn’t help the smile, allowing the moment though not completely at ease with the growing discomfort the room presented.

“Where’s Brandon?” she asked.

“I don’t know, he deposited us here as soon as I arrived. I think he’s off to greet his guests. I wonder if he’s trying to get me to invest in a polo team.”

He laughed, a cheeky glint in his eyes. She laughed too, despite herself.

“I have a feeling...” the words died in her mouth as Brandon came into view. Animatedly chatting to a man in a worn grey suit, a familiar man...all too familiar. “Is that...” Uncle Jon. Oh no. Sansa looked to Petyr whose back was to the whole affair playing out behind him, his gaze solely fixed on her.

“Petyr!” Her voice rang clear over the din. Sansa saw it instantly. The ease that was so natural to the man she’d come to know seeped out of him like an emptying drain. The recognition in his eyes forcing the warmth in his smile to harden. “Oh Petyr!”

His eyes drifted to Sansa, the green grey depths betraying a side to her enigma that she had never seen, though could not put a name to.

Cat too, also ceased in her mirth to look over at the new intruder in her little dream world.

She stood there, her fading dull red hair strung up into a high style; the long drape of the gold and green empire-waisted gown glinting off the chandelier. She looked like a faded photograph of a silent film star, glamorous yet out of place somehow.

“Lysa,” Petyr rasped, his throat gone suddenly dry.

“Lysa!” Cat moved first, outstretching her arms towards her sister. “How lovely you look!”

Lysa gave her air kisses over each cheek, embracing her much like a sister would, if not for the way her hand curled slightly over her arms, and the sharp flint in her eyes.

“I’m sorry we’re so late, Robin had a fit just before we were set to leave. Poor thing.”

“The boy’s fine,” muttered Jon.

“You can say that when he collapses from apoplexy!” Lysa hissed, barely shifting her gaze to acknowledge her husband. “I hope you were not worried.”

“Not at all. I didn’t even know you were coming!” Cat took a generous sip of her cocktail.

“Did Brandon not tell you?” Lysa looked back to the man, grinning smugly to himself. Cat’s gaze hardened over the rim of her glass.

“He neglected to mention it.”

“A surprise, my love! A reunion of sorts. Petyr, you must surely remember Lysa?” Brandon shot a challenging glance over to Petyr.

A new mask in place, Petyr whirled around, a smile plastered on his face.

“Of course,” he placed his untouched whiskey on the bar and strode over. Lysa reached out a hand for him to clasp, and he did, placing a quick kiss to the top of it. Lysa beamed at him, the smile on her face quickly melting off the years and lines of bitterness and regret that had weighed her down for so long. She was reborn a new girl.

“And of course Sansa,” Brandon continued. “Come and greet your aunt.”

Sansa would not make the same mistake as Petyr. She gulped down her whiskey in three long swallows.

“My dear!” Lysa’s false tenderness made Sansa’s heart sink into her gut.

“Aunt Lysa.”

Those claw like hand dig into her arms, reminding Sansa of her last encounter with the woman. The ya she a hurled such vicious insults towards her. Seems not all was forgiven. The kiss planted on her cheek was almost cold and a bit too harsh, and goosebumps crawled up Sansa’s arms to her spine, emanating from where Alysa gripped her rather roughly.

“Are these guests you had alluded to so cleverly, my sweet,” Cat strode over to Brandon; airily, unaffected.

“Almost, my darling,” he replied, nonchalant as ever. “I have a surprise for our dear Sansa.”

Sansa looked up at him, her heart sinking ever lower.

“F-for me?” Lysa finally released her grip on Sansa’s arm and eased away, drifting as close as she could towards Petyr.

Petyr kept looking between Sansa and Brandon, his curious nature causing him to be naturally wary of all of Brandon’s “surprises”.

A squeal shattered the mounting tent soon like a brick through glass.

“Where is my GIRRRLL!!!”

Relief washed over Sansa, head to toe, a veritable waterfall.

“Margaery!” Sansa cried, spinning to see her friend.

“Did you miss me?” she cried excitedly, throwing her hand up in welcome invitation. “Because I missed you!”

“Margaery!” Sansa cried, practically running to throw herself in her friends arms.

“All summer, I don’t get a word, not even an invitation to tea. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You were so busy, what with the wedding and all...”

“You don’t think I wouldn’t have made time for you. Is that what you think of me?” Margaery squeezed Sansa so hard her lungs nearly popped. “I have to get an invite from your father at the end of the season. I’m hurt!”

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Sansa squeezed her back.

“You better be sorry,” Margaery released her. “God you look gorgeous. How’d you ever afford a gown like that, hmm?”

“Oh, uh, it’s a loan.”

Sansa’s eyes drifted once more to Petyr.

“Well what are you waiting for?” Margaery smacked her across the arm. “Quick, get me a drink before Joff finishes up with the coats.”

The momentary joy Sansa had felt at Margaery’s presence quickly evaporated at the mention of that sacred name. Sansa’s blood ran instantly cold.

“Joffrey? He’s here?” she blinked, almost in disbelief.

“Of course I am.”

Sansa froze. That voice. Without looking at his face she could see it even in her minds eyes, his toothy mouth twisted up into a smug little smile. The entitlement in those dark blue beady little eyes.  
In her excitement at seeing her old friend after so long apart had almost made her forget the reason for the separation.

Sansa slowly turned to see him, standing there as though he’d corporealized out of nothing. An unwanted genie from a black bitter little bottle Sansa had hoped would stay undisturbed.

“Ello girlie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! At long last!!!! 
> 
> {If there is anyone still out there reading this}
> 
> I know, I’m terrible. I have been absolutely blocked on this story for such a long time. I’ve thought about rewriting the whole damn thing about twenty times, but I finally managed to suck it up and refigure the direction I want to take this story in.
> 
> Hold on to your breeches, it’s about to get crazy. 
> 
> I am determined to finish this story, I promise. So for all of you who have been patiently awaiting an update ( I’m sorry, I’m the worst), Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your patience, and I hope it was all worth it. This chapter was a bit of a bitch to write but it’s chock full of goodies, and it’s nice and long, so hopefully it makes up for all the WAITING. But we’re back on track, and shits about to go DOWN!

**Author's Note:**

> Game Of Thrones meets Gatsby.  
> Sansa is Nick Caraway  
> Petyr Baelish is Gatsby  
> Catelyn Stark is Daisy
> 
> A writing experiment.


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